The Case of the Denying Detective
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Paul has missing for three months, under odd and unknown circumstances. When he finally returns, he can't make himself embrace the reality of it. Now Perry, Della, and Hamilton must not only uncover what happened, they must convince Paul of the truth.
1. Return

**Perry Mason**

**The Case of the Denying Detective**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the show are not mine. The other characters and the story are mine! This picks up my thread of **_**Perry**_** mysteries, but I don't think any of the others really need to have been read first. Although it might perhaps be useful to be aware of the previous two. And I'll be trying something different for this fic—I'll be telling the story alternately through flashbacks as well as the present as I try to tie everything together. If things start out confusing, that's largely intentional. And guys, I promise that I'll do my best to keep the plot from turning heavily supernatural or sci-fi. Right now I have no intentions of either, unlike the two previous mysteries. References to the events of those mysteries are planned, out of necessity, but nothing more.**

**Chapter One**

_Los Angeles Detective Still Missing After Three Months_

Perry Mason tossed the day's newspaper onto his desk with a frustrated and discouraged swing of his wrist. Della Street, standing near the balcony doors as she wrote in her notepad, jumped a mile. She turned, her lips parting as she was about to ask what Perry was up to. When she saw his scowl and the newspaper, however, understanding and sadness dawned in her eyes.

"I couldn't even bring myself to read that story," she said quietly.

Perry gripped his fist with his other hand. "I just don't understand it. Paul hasn't been seen or heard from in three months. _Three months!_ Where in Heaven's name could he be?"

Della swallowed hard. "I ask that question every day." She came over to the desk, setting her notepad aside as she pulled the paper closer to her. It did not say anything they did not already know. Not that she had really expected anything different. She sighed, pushing it away again. "Something terrible must have happened to him. He would have tried to call if he was alright!"

"Something terrible did happen to him, Della." Perry's frown deepened. "He attacked Hamilton for no apparent reason and then fled."

"And we still don't know why that happened, either," Della said with deep regret. "It doesn't look like it could have been Dr. Portman's work. But surely Paul couldn't have done it on purpose." She stared at the paper without really seeing it. "Maybe he's staying away because he feels so terrible about it."

"But for three months?" Perry shook his head. "He would come back and face it long before now."

Della sighed. "You're right. I didn't really mean that; I'm just so worried."

"I know." Perry clasped his hands. "I've been doing the same thing—running each and every possibility over and over in my mind, discarding it, and coming back to it later when something else fails. Sometimes something starts to make sense, but it doesn't go anywhere beyond the thinking stage and it doesn't help figure out where Paul is now, so I set it aside again. It's an endless cycle."

"It's all so agonizing." Della hesitated. "Perry?"

He glanced up. "Hmm?"

"Why do you think Paul attacked Hamilton?"

Perry heaved a sigh. "I don't know, Della. I agree with you that he wouldn't have done it of his own volition. Even if Hamilton had done something to anger Paul, I can't feature Paul doing anything more than delivering one lone punch."

"And he did a lot more than that." Della idly looked at the papers on Perry's desk. "I feel sorry for both of them. Hamilton looked so shocked when Paul came at him that way. I'll never be able to forget that. And you said he was sore for quite a few days afterwards."

"He was. But he hasn't held it against Paul," Perry noted. "He's been as worried and confused as we've been."

"I know." Della had long ago softened towards Hamilton and thought of him as a friend, but his handling of this catastrophe had elevated him in her respect even further.

"The police have mostly given up the search," she sadly said now. "Even Steve doesn't know what else to do."

"_We_ won't give up, though," Perry vowed. "Even though we don't know what else to do either. Somehow, someway, he'll turn up."

Della prayed that when he did he would be alive.

And back to his old self.

xxxx

An hour or two later, the telephone rang. Without waiting for Della, Perry snatched it up. "Hello?"

The information the caller had to bring sent him turning sheet-white. "We'll be right there," he declared. Hanging up, he grabbed his hat and coat and headed for the door.

In her office, Della looked up in surprise when Perry barreled out. "Perry, what is it?" she gasped.

"Hamilton," Perry said. "He said he just had a strange visitor—a man claiming he knows Paul is dead!"

Della leaped up from her desk in the next moment, chasing after Perry to the door. "Do you think there's anything to it?" she cried.

"I don't know," Perry said. "Neither does Hamilton. But I hope not."

Della certainly did as well. "It's strange that this person would turn up today, with the article running in all the city papers," she said.

Perry nodded. "Maybe there's some connection," he said. "On the other hand, maybe there isn't."

He was sick over the possibility of Hamilton's contact knowing the truth. He had often feared that when Paul turned up, it could be as a corpse. Both he and Della had had more than their fair share of nightmares over that possibility. And whether Hamilton Burger would admit it or not, he had as well.

He had come to Perry many times, both at the courthouse and at Perry's office, to ask if there was any news about Paul. It was a bit ironic that now he was the one to whom the news had come. He believed, as did Perry, that there had to be some mistake about its accuracy.

But only time would tell that.

Maybe it was only a fool's belief.

xxxx

The garden was where Hamilton and occasionally the others had started to go when they wanted to think. It was a cemetery, really, but the long hedges and magnificent architecture gave off an air of a peaceful and meditative park—which was as its creator had intended.

Hamilton sank down on one of the stone benches, pulling his trenchcoat closer around him in the chill. It had been a long day, made only longer by the memories of old, unsolved wounds being dredged up once again. He had lost track of the time, but although he was weary he did not want to leave until he somehow found some answers. And that could take a long time more.

"Hamilton?"

He turned at the sound of Mignon's voice. She sat down beside him, her dark eyes flickering with concern. "Hamilton, I know something is wrong. What is it?" She ran her hands over her black coat, spreading out the creases. "I was concerned when I called your office and your secretary was still there, but you weren't. He said he wasn't sure where you were going. I suddenly thought of this spot."

Hamilton managed a smile. "You know me too well, Mignon." He sighed. "I was thinking about Paul," he admitted. "He hasn't been seen at all since . . ." He trailed off.

"Since the night he attacked you for no reason," Mignon finished.

"Yes." Hamilton nodded, troubled. "I just found out today that he might be dead. And that he might have died still thinking he killed me."

Mignon regarded him in surprise. "He didn't even hurt you that badly."

"I know," Hamilton said, "but maybe he never knew that. This person who claimed to have seen him said that he was talking about coming to with blood all over his hands. The last thing he remembered was attacking me, so he thought maybe he'd seriously hurt me. He stayed away because he was afraid he might space out again without warning and hurt someone else. Otherwise he would have turned himself in."

"But I don't understand how he would get the idea that you're dead," Mignon said. "He could have easily read a newspaper and learned the truth."

"I don't understand it either," Hamilton said. "Maybe my contact was mistaken or even deliberately lying. But I can't get it out of my mind at any rate."

Mignon considered that. "Where did this person supposedly see Mr. Drake?"

"San Diego," Hamilton said. "I already had a man down there checking up on something, so I asked him to look for Paul while he was at it. And unless I decide to go down there too, all I can do now is sit and wait."

"That is often the most difficult thing to do." Mignon rested her hand on Hamilton's. "Do you feel that you should go?"

"I really can't," Hamilton said with obvious regret. "Not unless I drop all of my cases and reassign them to my assistants for a day or two. I guess I _could,_ but I'd like to have some more concrete information before I'd do something like that."

"Of course." Mignon looked at her dear friend. The conflict and anguish on his features was apparent. And he really looked as though he had aged several years just in the last few hours. "Does Mr. Mason know?" she asked at last.

"Yes, I told him and Della," Hamilton said. "They're hoping to go down in the morning. They're still clinging to the hope that maybe Paul isn't dead, even if it's true that he was seen in San Diego."

"How was he supposed to have died?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Hamilton said. "This contact claims that Paul was found lying dead on an old barge without so much as one piece of I.D. on him. And he gave me a picture, but it's so dark we haven't been able to tell whose body is in it. It's flimsy, but it's all we have. The San Diego coroner's office doesn't remember checking in a John Doe that looked like Paul, though."

"Then maybe everything will be alright," Mignon said.

"I'd like to believe that." Hamilton massaged the bridge of his nose. "Right after Paul ran off and disappeared, we all looked everywhere, all over the county. I remember those days all too well."

"As do I. I know it was horrible for you. You started coming here often."

"I'd heard these strange stories that a guy was wandering through the cemeteries, looking for a specific grave. A guy who matched Paul's description." Hamilton leaned back. "I was hoping I could catch him some night. As near as I can tell, he must have been looking for _my_ grave. I hoped that he'd learned later that I was fine. But maybe that was just how I tried to console myself. I was sure he would've come back if he'd realized."

"In losing Paul you lost a dear friend." Mignon's words were a statement, not a question.

Hamilton nodded. "We had just started to patch things up not that long before," he said. "Then three months ago he lunged at me like that and took off. I just wish I could've gone after him right then." Hamilton looked disgusted with himself. "He may have not hurt me seriously, but it was bad enough that I got the wind knocked right out of me for a few minutes."

"But the blood on his hands that he supposedly spoke of in San Diego." Mignon frowned more. "Did he hurt you so badly that you were bleeding? I don't remember that you were."

"I don't think I was," Hamilton said. "Oh, except for a scratch or two. Mostly I was bruised and sore. That judo flip he tried really did me in."

Mignon was worried now. "Then do you think he harmed someone else, perhaps far worse than he hurt you?"

"I don't _want_ to think that," Hamilton said. "But it's crossed my mind." He sighed. "I just don't know."

"I know you'll make the right decision in the end," Mignon told him. "Somehow this will be resolved. It's been left open for far too long."

"Don't think I don't agree with that," Hamilton said. "I just wish I knew what the right decision is."

xxxx

Mignon stayed with him for a while longer before getting up to leave. Hamilton lingered, the night lapsing on as he tried to sort out the problem.

There was no way to even begin to get at the truth without finding Paul. Not that Paul knew, or remembered, it anymore. But he had to be located and have his mind set at ease where Hamilton's well-being was concerned.

. . . _If_ he was still alive.

And there was finding the person who had done this to him. Could it have been Alice Portman? She had been committed to an institution. Hamilton had asked her anyway, around the time it had first happened. But she had denied doing anything to Paul. She could not have arranged it from in there, not without the doctors noticing. That, as far as Hamilton was concerned, was debatable. However, in case she was telling the truth he needed to look elsewhere.

Of course Paul had been under the influence of _something._ The thought of him attacking of his own free will was completely out of the question. Even if he had still been on the rocks with Hamilton he never would have done such a thing. Perry fully concurred.

Hamilton got up, slowly walking the paths of the garden cemetery. It had been weeks since there had been any possible sign of Paul in Los Angeles. Hamilton was not sure why he had returned here tonight, upon learning that Paul might be dead. Perhaps because it was the last place he had investigated those months before. He longed for some answers and did not know where to find them.

The sudden attack on his consciousness from behind left him exclaiming in pain and surprise as he collapsed to the grass, his head throbbing.

xxxx

It was the feeling of something tripping over his limp body that startled him back to his senses. He opened his eyes . . . and found to his utter shock that Paul Drake was looking down at him.

A wild-eyed, ill-rested, but very much alive Paul Drake.

"No," Paul gasped, rocking back. "No, you can't be lying here like this. You're dead and buried. I killed you. I _know_ I killed you! Your blood . . . it was all over my hands. I couldn't get it off." He shook his head. "I'm going crazy. You're not really here."

Hamilton fought to process the confused spiel in his aching mind. As Paul shied away, Hamilton struggled and reached to snatch his wrist. "Paul, wait!" he pleaded. "I'm not dead. You didn't kill me! Somebody knocked me out and I was lying here unconscious."

Paul tore his wrist free. "Ha!" he retorted. "Ohh no, buster. I've had enough of seeing your ghost talk to me in my head. I'm not falling for it this time." He got up, turning to flee over the grass.

Hamilton stumbled but pulled himself upright to give chase. "I'm not in your head!" he retorted. "I'm _real!_"

"You always say that." Paul took off running.

Pushing back the dizziness and pain, Hamilton somehow managed to follow, albeit far behind. "Paul, it's been several months!" he called. "We've all been worried about you. Please, just stop for a few minutes and listen to me!"

Paul only increased his speed. The gap between them was widening by the second.

Hamilton had no idea where he drew the strength for that final burst of energy, when he was still aching from his experience. But he did know he was not about to let Paul vanish into the night, not when he was finally right here. He all but flew through the air, tackling Paul to the ground. Paul shouted and flailed, desperate to pull away. Hamilton held fast—which was really quite a miracle in and of itself, considering Paul's broader build.

"Now wait just a minute, for Heaven's sake!" Hamilton cried. "Paul, you've always been a rational person. Could a ghost grab your arm? Tackle you? Think about it!"

"No!" Paul yelled. "I'm sick of your mind tricks! Let me go!"

"Whose mind tricks?" Hamilton shot back.

At last Paul stiffened. Then his shoulders slumped and he sank into the grass. "I . . . don't know," he admitted.

Hamilton slowly relaxed his grip. "Paul, you didn't kill me," he said, quieter now. "I'm alive and well."

Paul started to turn onto his side. "Oh, how I wish I could believe that." He peered at Hamilton. "Maybe this is all a big illusion, like hypnosis."

"It isn't," Hamilton said. He backed off, allowing Paul his freedom and space. "If I could just convince you . . . !"

Paul frowned. "Supposing it's true, why would someone randomly knock you out? And what would you be doing in here this late anyway?"

"I don't know why they did it," Hamilton answered. "I wasn't robbed," he added as he checked for his wallet. "But I was in here because I was trying to think what to do. I'd just found out today that _you_ might be dead. I have a man looking for you in San Diego, where you were last seen. And I was thinking about going down there to look myself. Actually, I'd just made up my mind on what to do when someone cracked me on the skull." He gingerly touched the sore spot.

"Yeah? What did you plan on doing?" Paul was still on guard, still suspicious.

"I was going to go to San Diego." Hamilton's response was firm and matter-of-fact.

"For me?" Paul said in disbelief. "Why?"

Hamilton frowned, letting his hand drop. "I thought we were past all that," he said. "Paul, I've been _worried._ You've been gone for months!"

Paul swallowed hard. "What I mean is, I thought you were dead. I know I attacked you; it's the last thing I clearly remember from that night. And you were still going to come after me?"

"Yes!" Hamilton looked at him pleadingly. "I had to know the truth. And if you were . . . still alive, I had to let _you _know the truth and see if I could get you to come back with me.

"Will you?"

"I . . ." Paul looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes. "I've stayed away all this time because I've just been panic-stricken that I'd flip out again and hurt someone else, maybe even Perry or Della. I didn't want them to come looking and find me either, for that reason. I wanted to find out what I'd really done before I let anyone know where I was. There was _blood_ on my hands!"

"It wasn't mine," Hamilton said. "But Paul, that's another reason you need to come back. We have to figure out what happened and if you really did hurt someone. The courts know about Portman's mind-control. If you were under the influence of that, or anything like it, they won't convict you. I'll do everything in my power to help you. Of course, Perry will too."

Paul heaved a shaking sigh. "I . . . I want to believe you," he said. "It's just that . . . well, after everything I've been through, I'm not sure that I can. It's so much to take in. I'm still not even sure this is real."

"Then . . . all I can ask is for you to give it . . . give _me_ a chance. Will you please come back with me? Even just for a while?" Hamilton tensely waited for a reply.

At last Paul looked up. "Alright," he said. "I'll come back with you. But I can't promise I'll accept you're really here. As far as I know, I could still be having a wild hallucination. And at the first sign I might be starting to act out, I'll skip. I'm not going to risk anyone's safety."

Hamilton nodded. "Fair enough." It was more than he could have hoped for, he supposed.

But as he and Paul slowly got up and headed out of the cemetery, he could not help the melancholy ache and the sincere worry.

Would Paul ever again embrace reality?


	2. Attack

**Chapter Two**

Perry folded another shirt and deposited it in the dark suitcase. He was still reeling from the news Hamilton had delivered to him and Della earlier that evening. There was no way he would get a wink of sleep until they were in San Diego. The same was most likely true of Della.

_Paul, dead?_

No, it just could not be. The evidence was far too scanty. And it was suspicious right away that the photograph of him supposedly lying lifeless was too dark to identify the body. Hamilton was having his contact shadowed. But instead of doing anything interesting or helpful, the man had only gone back to his hotel room.

Perry added several more articles of clothing before snapping the valise shut. The strange fellow might know something useful. Perry had gone to the hotel and attempted to talk with him, but had flatly been told through the door that he was going to bed and would not open the door to let anyone in at that hour. So, angered and frustrated, Perry had decided the only thing left was to fly to San Diego. In the morning before the plane left he would try to converse with the disagreeable man again.

He was probably part of the hoax to make it look like Paul was dead. For surely that was what it had to be—a hoax. Paul was alive, Perry continued to tell himself. Paul was _alive._

The problem was, he did not know that for sure. He could only persist in his desperate, insistent belief that it was true.

Paul being dead would, unfortunately, explain the lack of communication. But so would several other reasons.

The ringing phone jarred him back to the present. He hastened to grab the receiver by the bed. "Hello?"

"Hello, Perry." It was Hamilton.

Perry was instantly on guard. "Hamilton, have you learned anything?" he demanded.

"Yes, I have," replied Hamilton. "Perry, Paul is alive. And he's in Los Angeles. But . . ." He hesitated. "I'm not sure how to say this. He's . . . not that well off."

"What?" All of Hamilton's words were so shocking that Perry was not sure what to focus on most. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . . I don't like to talk about it on the phone." Hamilton sounded uncomfortable. "Paul's with me. Would it be alright if we just come to your apartment?"

"Alright? It would be just fine," Perry barked. "I'll get Della over here too."

"Okay. We should be there within thirty minutes."

"Hamilton," Perry broke in before his friend could hang up, "just tell me this. Is Paul badly hurt?"

"No," Hamilton said quickly. "Not physically, anyway. He's mostly just really unsure of . . . look, Perry, I'll tell you when we get there."

Perry gave an inner sigh of resignation. "Alright. Thank you, Hamilton."

"Oh, and Perry . . ." Hamilton had lowered his voice. "I know you must be upset that he's stayed away all this time without contacting you, but trust me that he's had yours and Della's welfare at heart. When you see him, please don't come down on him too hard. That's the last thing he needs right now."

Perry blinked. Whatever could be wrong, that Hamilton would give him that caution? "I'll keep that in mind," he said. "We'll see you both in a few minutes."

He hung up and immediately dialed Della's number. Even if she was asleep, she would want to be woke up for this.

xxxx

Paul had been edgy and anxious ever since leaving the cemetery. His mood did not improve after Hamilton called Perry. Now, as Hamilton was driving them to Perry's apartment, Paul shifted about in his restlessness.

Hamilton glanced over at him. "Paul, if you don't think this is real, what do you think is actually happening?" he had to ask.

"I have no idea," Paul grunted. "Maybe it's happening, alright, but you're someone else."

"I'm not someone else," Hamilton said in bewildered and concerned exasperation.

He drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself. For Paul to be having this much trouble accepting what was right in front of him, he had either been indescribably devastated and horrified or someone had tinkered with his mind. Or both.

"You said something about mind tricks," he came back at last. "You don't have any recollection at all of who was using them on you?"

"No." Paul's expression darkened. "I've been wandering around for the past three months, trying to find out what happened to me and why. I haven't turned up much of anything helpful."

"And in the process you've been encountering a hallucinated, ghostly version of me," Hamilton supplied.

"Something like that." Paul turned, staring out the window. "That's probably what I meant by mind tricks."

"Well, do I act like your ghost did?"

Paul shook his head. "You . . . he . . . _whoever_ . . . was usually taunting me. Sometimes blaming me for him being killed."

"Paul, you find the idea of ghosts as ridiculous as I do . . . _did,_" Hamilton grudgingly added.

"I know, I know," Paul grumbled. "I never wanted to believe it. And I was never sure you were really there. It could have all been in my head, just me feeling upset and imagining it. I'd think that for a while. Then I'd remember Andy's out-of-body experience and start wondering again."

"It was either all in your head or someone was playing a cruel trick on you," Hamilton said. "Paul, can't you remember anything strange that happened right before you attacked me?"

"I've tried and tried to think," Paul retorted. "No, I can't come up with anything at all."

"Well, didn't you have some thoughts as to why you were doing it?" Hamilton said in amazement.

"I knew I had to go after you. That's it." Paul clenched a fist.

"Paul, that doesn't even make sense!"

Paul slammed his palm down on the car door. "I know!" he yelled.

Silence reigned. At last Paul spoke again, quieter. "How bad did I hurt you?"

". . . Not bad," Hamilton answered.

"Tell me," Paul persisted. "I remember I tried to hit you a few times."

At last Hamilton sighed in resignation. ". . . And you succeeded some of those times. But that judo flip was the worst of it," he added with a chuckle, wanting to let Paul know that he did not hold any ill feelings. "You stunned me with that one." He sobered upon the sight of Paul's unmoved expression. "Alright, I'll admit that I was sore for several days. But after that I was fine."

Paul groaned, running a hand over his face. "I can't believe I did that. Of all people to judo-flip, I _have_ to pick the district attorney."

"I can't believe you did it either," Hamilton muttered.

Finally Paul looked to him once more. "I know it doesn't make up for it, and I can't even begin to figure out how or why it happened, but I'm sorry." His eyes were filled with regret and guilt. "I'm really, honestly sorry."

"I know you are," Hamilton said. "But Paul . . . do you believe _that's_ what happened and not that you killed me?"

"I don't know." Paul shook his head. "I want to believe it. It's just . . . it's a lot to swallow right now. It's hard to make myself believe this is real when the other seemed so real for weeks."

Hamilton pulled up in front of Perry's apartment building. He was quiet again now, not sure what to say. To some extent he could understand Paul's conflicted feelings. He was still having a dilemma of his own where it came to the existence of magic versus the logical world he had previously always believed they lived in. A magical world was too fantastic, too outrageous, too _frightening_, for Hamilton to fully grasp and consider as reality. He wanted to push it aside, to continue refusing to believe in it in favor of the familiar, scientific Earth that was comfortable and comforting.

But there were key differences in the comparisons. In Paul's case, the various scenarios he was struggling with pertained to him personally and those around him, not the world as a whole. And the reality he had not been able to accept was good, unlike what Hamilton felt about magical elements.

"Alright," he said at last. "We won't talk about it any more right now. Let's just go in and see Perry and Della. Maybe you'll feel better then."

"Maybe," Paul said, his tone noncommittal.

They got out and headed into the building. Paul was silent now, his hands shoved in the pockets of his beige trenchcoat. Hamilton stayed quiet as well, out of things to say and not wanting to press the issue. He wished he knew what to do.

It was Perry who opened the door when they arrived and Hamilton knocked, but Della was right behind him, her eyes wide and worried and hopeful. Upon seeing Paul they lit up.

"Paul!" she exclaimed in sheer joy. "You're safe!"

Perry could not keep from smiling as he held the door open wider. "Paul, you're a sight for sore eyes," he declared. "Come in! You too, Hamilton," he added. As they did so, he turned his attention back to Paul. "Where on earth have you been keeping yourself?" Remembering Hamilton's warning, he tried to keep any hint of reproof out of his voice.

"All over the place," Paul said. He could not help smiling a bit as well, particularly as he looked to Della. "Hello, Beautiful." But despite his cheer, the cautions were still in his eyes too. He was on guard, not knowing what to think or believe.

Perry shut the door behind them. "Are you alright, Paul?" he queried, not sure what to make of the look in his old friend's eyes.

Paul debated with himself over the answer. It was his nature to dismiss any worries and insist that he was fine. But he was absolutely not fine. Burger—or whoever this was—already knew it. And anyway, if he claimed nothing was wrong it would make Perry and Della's hurt over his silence all the worse.

He took a deep breath. "Well, to be honest, I'm not sure _what_ I am," he said. "I attacked someone without any reason or cause. I thought I killed him." He shot a quick glance at Burger. "And I still can't say I know I didn't. All that blood . . ."

Della stared in disbelief. "But Paul," she gasped, "Mr. Burger is right here! He's alright!"

"Yeah, I know," said Paul. "Or that's how it looks anyway. Maybe all of this is a delusion."

Perry's eyes narrowed. When he caught Hamilton's gaze, the other man gave a single grim nod. This was what was wrong.

Paul advanced into the apartment, pacing the floor. "I just couldn't see myself going to you or the police without first knowing what happened to me," he said. "For all I'd know, the same thing might happen again and I'd be responsible for hurting or killing someone else."

". . . And did you find the answer?" Perry asked at last.

Paul stopped walking the floor and looked back. "No, I haven't," he said in frustration. "I don't know what to do."

"Paul definitely at least _saw_ someone who was hurt worse than me," Hamilton put in. "The blood had to come from somewhere."

"I just don't remember anything about _where,_ if it wasn't yours," Paul said.

Perry considered that and then nodded. "Alright. Let's all sit down and try to retrace your steps. Maybe if we reconstruct what happened that night something new will jump out at us."

Paul plopped on the couch. "Perry, I've tried that," he objected. "I've gone over it and over it and nothing ever makes sense!"

"Four minds are better than one," Perry rejoined. "Maybe one of us will remember a detail that the others have forgot."

**Then**

The house next-door to the Petersons' had stood vacant ever since Vivalene's arrest. The police had been through it with a fine-toothed comb, searching for anything else the wretched woman might have left that would be useful in the court trials. Vivalene herself was still in a mysterious coma, and her sister Flo had pled Guilty to her charges, but there was still Judge Heyes and Mr. Vann, both of whom stubbornly continued to plead Not Guilty. There was enough evidence already to convict them both, but with their highly crafty lawyers it was still conceivable that they could get off.

That was why the police had come back again. This time Hamilton had come with them. Later on, Perry, Della, and Paul had arrived to help. But after two hours of turning up nothing new, the group converged on the sidewalk outside the mansion.

Or most of the group, at least. Paul had not caught up to them as of yet.

Lieutenant Tragg sighed, pushing up his hat. "Well, I don't see much point in checking the place any further," he declared. "There's nothing of use here."

"Then I suppose we'll just have to hope Heyes' lawyers can't find any more loopholes," Andy said.

"And there's no guarantee of that," Hamilton said. "It's been a battle in court every day." He frowned. "It's not like going up against Perry, either. He may bend the law here and there . . ." He shot Perry a disapproving look. ". . . But he doesn't do anything outright illegal. I've got the feeling that Heyes' lawyers have no qualms about that. I just can't prove it."

"If anyone can get that corrupt man convicted, Hamilton, I know you can," Perry said. "And you'll eventually catch his lawyers as well, if they are breaking the law."

Della suddenly looked up, bewildered. "Where's Paul?" she exclaimed.

Perry snapped to in surprise. "He must still be in the house."

Tragg glanced back at it. "If he is, he's wandering around in the dark," he said in exasperation. "Well, I suppose we'll have to go back in there and make sure we haven't locked him in by accident." He dug into his pockets for the keys.

Perry frowned. "I can't imagine what he's doing. Just a minute, Tragg. I'll call him and see if he answers." He picked up his cellphone and dialed Paul's number. After five rings he gave up.

"He's not answering, eh?" Tragg shook his head. "That's not like him."

"Maybe he's in one of those secret tunnels and he can't get any reception," Perry mused.

Tragg was already turning to head for the door. "Well, we'd better check in any case."

Hamilton sighed. "Yes, we'd better," he agreed.

"How is the case against Mr. Vann coming along?" Perry wondered as they headed back up the hill at the edge of the property.

"Oh . . . it's frustrating too," Hamilton said. "Maybe not as much so as with Heyes, but Vann's lawyers obviously have some tricks up their sleeves.

"I don't know how he thinks he can weasel his way out of it," he continued, angrily. "Especially the kidnapping and child endangerment charges. All of us saw him holding Howie captive and threatening to kill him."

"Yes, we did." Perry's frown deepened. "What sort of excuses are his lawyers making up?"

"They're trying to throw the 'group hypnosis' theory right back in our faces," Hamilton said in frustration, "and say that we have no proof we didn't hallucinate the whole thing. They brought that up in my office today."

"Did you tell them that you had been injured from being thrust down the stairs several moments after Vann's threats and that a licensed medical doctor had examined you and confirmed it? _That _certainly wasn't a hallucination."

"I told them. They're still insisting that as long as we're charging that we were placed under group hypnosis, we have no case." Hamilton rubbed his temples. "I don't know, Perry. It's not like I can tell the world what really happened."

"It's not as though you're even sure that you can believe it yourself," Perry commented.

"I know." Hamilton dropped his hands to his sides. "And people all over the county are still talking about what happened. A lot of them have come to my office, saying they can back up some of our claims. I've seen several teachers from Howie's school already. They all remember Andy and Della being there for a few days."

"Well." Perry looked to him. "This is a strange development. What are you going to do, Hamilton? You can't very well claim that the entire county was placed under group hypnosis."

"And I can't very well claim that the entire county was placed under a black magic spell, either." Hamilton shook his head. "Frankly, Perry, if we can't find more proof of their criminal activities I might lose both cases. And I don't want to see either of those madmen set free to wreck more havoc. Heyes is a disgrace to the justice system!"

That was when a blur darted around the side of the house and lunged directly at Hamilton, fist outstretched. It happened too fast for him to even be able to react. The blow caught him on the cheek and he fell back, nearly losing his balance. Perry grabbed for him, also catching sight of the attacker's identity before Hamilton did.

"Paul!" he burst out in disbelief. "What on earth . . ."

Hamilton regained his balance, staring in shock at the private detective. "Paul, why did you do that?" he cried.

Paul did not answer. Instead he lunged again, his fists flying. Hamilton tried to dodge, reaching to catch hold of Paul's wrists at the same time. He nearly succeeded a time or so, but with Paul's speed he landed a couple more harsh hits. Perry moved to grab him from behind.

On the porch, Tragg turned and stared, his jaw dropping. "Why, he's gone mad!" he burst out.

Hamilton managed to grab Paul's wrist at the same moment Paul jerked away from Perry. Paul in turn clutched Hamilton's wrist, wrenching his arm up and twisting it. Hamilton clenched his teeth, cringing in pain. Though he tried to pull away, Paul's grasp was too strong.

Perry and the police were all converging on the scene now. Della stood in horror and disbelief at the side. "Paul!" she exclaimed. "You're hurting him! Stop it; let him go!"

Apparently aware of the men charging him from either side, Paul tried a new tactic. Still holding Hamilton's wrist, with his other hand he made a fist and slugged Hamilton in the stomach. Hamilton gasped, beginning to double over. Taking advantage of his hapless opponent's current vulnerability, Paul snatched Hamilton's belt. He catapulted the stunned man over his shoulder and to the ground before fleeing over the grassy hill to the sidewalk. He was in his car and speeding away before anyone could recover enough from Hamilton being thrown into their path to follow.

Perry immediately dropped to his knees next to the district attorney. "Hamilton?" He rested his hand, gently, on the heaving shoulder. "Hamilton, are you alright?"

Hamilton was dazed, breathing heavily as he stared with blank eyes at the sky. At the moment he did not so much as hear Perry at all.

"Hamilton!" Perry's voice had gained a worried edge.

At last Hamilton blinked. "He attacked me," he rasped. "I don't believe it. Paul attacked me. For no reason at all."

Perry's eyes flickered with bewilderment and sadness. "I can hardly believe it myself. But yes, he did."

**Now**

By the time everyone had finished giving their accounts of what had transpired Paul was leaning forward, running his hands into his hair.

"If that's really how it happened, I was acting like a madman, alright," he mumbled. "What was the _point?_ Why would I _do_ that?"

"Paul . . ." Perry looked to him in concern. "Don't you remember at all what happened when you were separated from the rest of us? Don't you have any idea of what you could have run into that changed you so drastically, even for a few minutes?"

"No." Paul straightened and returned Perry's gaze. "I have no memory of it at all. I remember going through the house with you and the others. Then everything's a blank and suddenly I'm losing my mind."

"Were you conscious of what you were doing when you attacked Hamilton?" Perry persisted.

"No, I wasn't. I had this feeling like I _had_ to go after him. I told that to him earlier." Paul nodded in Hamilton's general direction. "And I remember punching him and going after him some more. Then everything blanked out again and I came to with blood all over my hands. Well, what was I supposed to think? I was sure I had to have seriously hurt or even killed him!"

"What I don't understand is why you couldn't have easily learned the truth," Perry said. "The newspapers ran stories on the trials after that and talked about what Hamilton was doing."

"I don't get it either," Paul said. "I never saw those papers."

"Did it occur to you to look?" Perry wondered.

"I . . ." Paul shook his head. "I don't think so."

Della had been silent for some time. At last she leaned forward to speak. "I know this won't be a welcome suggestion, but Paul, after what we've been dealing with lately, isn't it possible that this time _you_ were under some kind of mind control?"

"I've thought of that," Paul countered. "Yeah, I guess it's possible. But I really don't think so."

"Please, can't we come up with some other explanation than that?" Hamilton moaned.

"I hope so," Perry said. "There have been reports for centuries of people occasionally acting out, and very rarely has it had anything to do with mind control."

"I could always just be going crazy," Paul said with heavy sarcasm.

"No, I don't think that, either." Perry glanced over at him. "Paul, you must be exhausted. Why don't we take you home and you can get some sleep? In the morning we can pick this up again."

"Sure." But Paul hesitated. "Wait a minute. Do I even still _have_ a home? I haven't been around to keep up the rent."

"Oh Paul, you don't have to worry about that." Della cast a fond look at Perry. "Your rent's been kept up."


	3. Murder

**Notes: You know, it always seems that whenever I either forget or deliberately neglect to place certain reminders on stories, for whatever fandom, someone immediately jumps on their high-horse to rant about whatever it is I usually remind about. So, here is my previously missing reminder that I have moved the time period to the present day. I don't care if some people don't like it; that's their choice. And there's a polite way to tell me they don't like it. Some have, and I appreciate their input, even though it doesn't change my mind one iota. But there's also a very impolite way to tell me. I don't particularly like being treated as though I'm an idiot for doing it, especially since I know completely what I'm doing and it's my creative choice. For me, **_**Perry**_** is timeless and easily adapts to any modern era. I have other reasons, too, but I won't clutter up this introduction any further, except to say here's Leon again. I'm going to try to flesh out his character some with this story. He rather fascinates me, being Hamilton's canonically never-seen and never-heard secretary.**

**Chapter Three**

Hamilton all but shuffled into his office the next day. He was half-asleep and exhausted. After the events of the past night it had been very difficult to sleep at all.

"Mr. Burger?"

He looked up at the sound of Leon's voice. His faithful, longtime secretary had arrived first and was standing at his desk in the outer office, collating a stack of papers on its edge.

"Good morning, Leon," Hamilton mumbled.

Leon shoved the papers into a folder and set it down. "You don't look like you had a very restful night, Sir," he said.

"I didn't," Hamilton said. "It's a mixed blessing, I suppose. I found Paul and convinced him to come back with me. But something happened to him, Leon. Something that I don't understand."

"What was it?" Leon asked in concern.

Hamilton wandered into the inner office and let his briefcase land on his desk with a pronounced _thump._ He used more care with his laptop. "I suppose you'll hear about it soon enough anyway," he said. "Paul thinks he killed me. And he thinks it so strongly that he can't let himself believe that I'm alive. He feels it's a delusion."

Leon had followed him inside, as Hamilton had known he would. "That's terrible," he said in dismay.

"I know." Hamilton eased out of his coat and hung it up. His hat he placed above it. "But he seems alright otherwise."

"That's a big thing that's wrong, though," Leon frowned.

"Well, maybe with some time he'll be able to accept that this is real." Hamilton sank down in his chair. "I'll have to get in touch with my contact. I want to see how he'll react to the news that Paul's really alive, unlike what he claimed."

"Do you think he's mixed up with what happened to Mr. Drake?"

"At this point, I honestly couldn't say."

". . . Speaking of things happening that we can't understand, there were two calls today," Leon said after a slight hesitation.

Hamilton looked up from where he was lifting the lid on the laptop. "Oh? What kind of calls?"

"More people wanting to talk about last December."

Hamilton froze. "Are you sure?"

Leon nodded. "I thought it was strange, after all this time. We haven't had any for several weeks."

"Yes, I know." Hamilton abandoned the laptop for the moment. "Did they say what they specifically wanted?"

"They said they'd only talk to you." Leon held out his notepad. "Their numbers are here."

Hamilton took it and glanced over it. "Well, I guess if they called before I even got in, it's a reasonable enough hour to call them back." He set it down next to the telephone and reached for the receiver.

_Last December_ had become a code between him and Leon for the disaster Vivalene and her cohorts had enacted during that time. Hamilton had tried and failed to prompt Leon's memories when he, along with almost everyone else, had forgotten the true way of things. And although Hamilton had determined that Leon was safe enough still working in his office and was not a specific target the same way Perry or Tragg had been, he had still tried off and on to get Leon to listen to him. When Leon's memories had later returned, he had been bewildered. Hamilton, unable to believe the idea that the calamity had been caused by black magic, had said to Leon that he did not know what had happened, but that he was prosecuting their enemies for group hypnosis.

Nevertheless, Hamilton had long ago conceded to tell Leon the other possibility of how everything had happened back then, with the strange box and the supposed evil spell over the county. He had decided that Leon, working so closely with him, had a right to know, whether or not either of them could conceive of such a thing. He had been grateful for it later, when his group hypnosis theory had been all but thrown out the window by the number of calls from people all over the county who were willing to testify that they had experienced the bizarre goings-on too. Neither Judge Heyes nor Mr. Vann had managed to get themselves off the hook yet, but Hamilton had not succeeded in convicting them, either.

The main hold-up now was the same as it had been several weeks ago—everyone acknowledged that _something_ had happened to Los Angeles County, but no one could agree on what that something had been. Nor could they account for how Heyes and Vann had assisted in causing it. Flo had pled Guilty to all of Hamilton's charges, even the group hypnosis, but now her case was being reviewed again. Hamilton could not help but wonder if she had deliberately pled Guilty because she knew how Hamilton's case against the others would unravel and she might still go free as a result. She was a far more devious and dangerous woman than Hamilton or any of the others had once thought.

Fifteen minutes later Hamilton hung up the phone for the second time and slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. The calls had been more of the same, and overall, were not that helpful. The first had been a store clerk who had spoken to Della once or twice in December when she had gone to purchase school supplies. And the second, a parent who had met both Della and Andy at a PTA meeting around that same time. Both were confused, wondering why Perry Mason's secretary and a Lieutenant with the L.A.P.D. had temporarily held jobs at the elementary school.

Hamilton closed his eyes. He had honestly not had any idea how far-reaching the effects of Vivalene's cruelty and desire for revenge would stretch. He had wondered how he would ever successfully prosecute her and the rest, but he had not considered the catastrophe that had unfolded before him.

"Mr. Burger?"

He opened his eyes at Leon's awkward tone. The other man was leaning in the doorway, embarrassed. "Yes? What is it, Leon?"

"I need my notepad, Sir."

Hamilton sat up straight. "Oh. Of course." He flipped the cover over and held it out. "I don't need to keep the sheet with the phone numbers. I called them both back."

Leon took it. "I guess they weren't very helpful," he stated rather than asked.

"If anything, the more calls we're getting, the less chance there is of a conviction." Hamilton frowned. "I just wonder why they called now, right after Paul finally came back."

Leon blinked. "You don't think there's a connection, do you?"

"It would be a wild coincidence," Hamilton said. "And I don't know what kind of a connection there could be." He grabbed for the phone again. "But maybe my mysterious informant knows."

Moments later he hung up the phone once more, this time in sheer aggravation. "I don't believe this," he said aloud to his office. "I should have guessed it." He pressed the button on his intercom. "Leon?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"He's left the hotel and disappeared into thin air. Get a couple of investigators on it, please." Hamilton's eyes narrowed. "We can't let him go far."

"I'm on it," Leon promised.

Hamilton released the button and got up, pacing the floor. How had the man completely sidestepped the investigator already watching the hotel? In fact, where _was_ the investigator at the hotel? He had not called, nor had Hamilton been able to call him.

The more Hamilton thought about it the more it bothered him. At last he grabbed his hat and stormed to the office door. "Leon, I'll meet those investigators at the hotel," he said. "I'm going there too."

Leon looked up and blinked in surprise. "You're getting personally involved in another investigation, Mr. Burger?"

"Yes!" Hamilton called over his shoulder. "Maybe because it feels like whoever's behind this wanted me to be personally involved from the start."

Paul had attacked _him._ The informant had come to _him. He_ had been the one knocked unconscious in the cemetery, right before Paul had come running and tripped over him. Everything came back to him. He was definitely involved.

And he did not like being used in these ways one bit.

xxxx

Paul rolled over in bed, squinting at the sun as it insistently made its way through the blinds and to where it had waked him. The digital clock flashing on the nightstand read 12:23.

He was back in his own room, in his own bed. Could it be real? Was it possible? Or was everything still in his mind?

He sat up, letting the quilt slide down to his lap. Perry had escorted him here late last night—or very early this morning, however one wanted to look at it. And though Perry had done his best to not question Paul further about the past three months or his whereabouts, his struggle had been obvious.

There wasn't really a great deal Paul had felt he could say. It had been three months, three long months of dead ends. The only thing he had really been able to confirm for Perry and the others was that the picture Hamilton had been given was indeed of him. Someone had knocked him out while he had been investigating an old barge, he had angrily related, and had snapped the picture then. He still didn't know who had done it or why.

"_Obviously,"_ Perry had said, his eyes narrowed in his bewilderment and displeasure, _"someone wanted us to think you were dead."_

That sounded logical enough, Paul supposed. And yet it was not logical at all. Why would anyone want that?

Why had they wanted Paul to think he had killed Hamilton?

Perry had suggested something that made Paul's blood run cold again even as he thought of it. _"What if they were trying to cover up a murder of their own by making you think you did it? Perhaps they never intended for you to think you'd killed Hamilton. Their own plan may have backfired when that happened. And maybe that's why they arranged a set-up for us to think you were dead. They wanted us to stop looking for you."_

Maybe it could even be true. But it still would not explain why Paul had flipped out and gone after Hamilton in the first place.

He climbed out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He really looked terrible, he decided. He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face.

Hamilton had promised that today he would have his office start digging into all of the murder files from the past three months, particularly all of the unsolved ones. He had also said he would be personally looking into the matter. If they could figure out whose body Paul could have stumbled across, they might be able to reevaluate both cases and fit some of the pieces together.

Of course there was the other possibility, the dark possibility they did not want to have to consider even though they did have to.

What if Paul had not merely stumbled over the body?

What if Paul had killed someone?

He slammed his palms down on the sink. He was not a murderer. Yet he had believed himself one for all this time.

And there was always the lingering doubt. For Hamilton Burger to be so alive and well as he had looked last night, wasn't that too good to be true? Wasn't it impossible?

Paul stared at his hands. How could he really know that he had not killed Hamilton in cold blood? From everyone's descriptions of his behavior he had behaved little better than a wild animal. He could have carried it further. He could have left Burger dead in the grass, just as he had believed.

He had gone on excursions to all the major cemeteries in Los Angeles, spending many long hours seeking the grave of the man he had been certain he had murdered. He had usually been in a shaken and dazed fog, not wanting to believe and yet not knowing how it could not be true.

And then he had gone to San Diego. Why? Just on a whim? Or had he found some clue?

For that matter, why had he come back to Los Angeles?

He had tried to answer those questions the past night and had found he could not. He did not know the answers.

And when he had returned to Los Angeles, the first thing he had done was to begin his macabre wanderings again. Then he had supposedly fallen over Hamilton's body, lying in the grass just as Paul had left him months before.

Only Hamilton had not been dead, only unconscious. Or so he had claimed. Maybe Hamilton was not really there. Maybe it all was one big delusion.

Paul stormed out of the bathroom. There were no answers to be found. He either had to go on being afraid and unable to accept what was happening to him now—or to take a leap of faith and dare to believe it was real.

And after believing so strongly that he had killed someone he had finally realized was a friend, did he have the courage to do that?

"_**Oh, of course you don't."**_

Paul clenched his teeth when he heard the unwelcome, sneering voice in his mind. This was not real, either. Just his own fears making themselves manifest.

Wasn't it?

"_**You killed me, Drake. Maybe you don't remember consciously, but subconsciously you do. You remember how you pulled a knife after you'd subdued me with that judo flip. Perry and the police were all coming at you, trying to stop you. I tried to stop you, too. But it didn't make one bit of difference. You plunged that knife into my heart. And even after I was dead, you kept stabbing me and stabbing me. You made it absolutely clear that what I always thought was true. You hate me. You've always hated me! And you made sure that everyone else knew it, too."**_

"Shut up!" Paul snarled. "I _didn't_ kill you! I didn't kill anyone!"

But he was still afraid that he had killed _someone._ What if he really did remember subconsciously? What if he had stabbed someone all over the place, just like the delusion in his head was saying?

He grabbed for the phone. He had to find out if there had been any murders like that in the past three months. His fingers flew as he dialed the district attorney's office. Then he leaned back, waiting with impatience.

"Mr. Burger's office."

Paul snapped to attention at Leon's voice. "Hey, Leon. Is he there? This is important."

"No," Leon said slowly. "He's gone out. Oh, is this Mr. Drake?"

"Yes, it is," said Paul. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I'm sorry, no." It sounded like Leon was tapping a pencil on the desk. "You could call his cellphone if it's urgent, I guess. He's out on an investigation. I think it has to do with your case, actually."

"Okay, thanks." Paul hung up and dialed the cellphone number. He had known Burger's private number since last December, when they had worked to overthrow Vivalene's calamity. He had kept hold of it since then. Occasionally he needed to make use of it.

"Hello?"

"What's going on there?" Paul greeted. "I called your office and Leon said you were checking out something to do with my case."

The thought briefly ran through his mind that he still did not quite know how to address Hamilton while speaking to him. They were not close enough for Paul to find a first-name basis appropriate. _Burger_ was too cold and _Mr. Burger_ too formal. Paul had tried to solve the problem by not calling him anything at all, save for _Sir_ when he was on the witness stand. But sometimes that was awkward too.

"That's right, I am." Hamilton was not missing a beat. "The man who contacted me yesterday and said you were dead has left the hotel. And we just found my investigator bound and chloroformed in his closet."

"Oh, well, that's just great," Paul groaned.

"It doesn't look like any clues were left behind," Hamilton said. "Of course." He sounded exasperated. "What was it you wanted?"

"I wanted to know if there'd been any murders by stabbing in the last three months," Paul said.

"There's usually some," Hamilton said in surprise.

"Yeah, well, I mean multiple stabbings," Paul said.

"There was a particularly brutal one almost exactly . . ." Hamilton trailed off. ". . . Three months ago." His voice was weak and understanding as he finished.

"Who was it?" Paul demanded, gripping the receiver ever tighter.

"A John Doe. He didn't have any identification at all. The police wrote it off as a sick robbery."

"I want everything you and the police have got on it," Paul requested.

"Well, there was never a suspect to prosecute," Hamilton said, "so the police know more about it than I do."

"Do they know I'm back yet?" Paul wondered how that would go. He was not currently a suspect in any murder investigation, and Hamilton had never pressed charges for the assault, but Paul was certain that at least some of the police were highly displeased with and suspicious of him by this point. Heck, he couldn't blame them. He would be suspicious of himself too.

Hamilton tried to think. ". . . It's been so hectic the last few hours I don't think anyone had the chance to call them," he admitted. "Unless Perry or Della did. Look, I'll call Lieutenant Drumm and have him call you. Alright?"

"Sure, fine," Paul said in relief. "Thanks." Out of all the police they had tangled with and even become friendly with through the years, he had always been on the best terms with Steve Drumm. It would put him more at ease to talk with Steve first.

"Just wait a few minutes and he should call, if he's available," Hamilton said. "If he's not, I'll call and let you know. And in any case, I'll see about that unsolved stabbing." He hesitated. "Paul . . . do you think you might've . . ."

"I don't know!" Paul exclaimed. "Maybe I saw something, maybe I didn't." He lowered his voice. "Or maybe I even did it myself."

"Let's not think that until we know more," Hamilton tried to say.

"Yeah," Paul mumbled. "Sure."

Hamilton sighed to himself as he hung up. If only they could find out what had happened, and soon.

He was praying that it did not involve Paul committing a murder, no matter how unaware of it he had been.

xxxx

It was already a busy day for Lieutenant Steve Drumm. It seemed that every few minutes someone was coming in with something he needed to see to, or the telephone was ringing off the hook, or he was misplacing the file he had to get hold of most. He was harried, exasperated, and frustrated.

"Lieutenant?"

He threw his hands in the air at the sound of Sergeant Brice's voice. "What is it _now,_ Sergeant?" he demanded, unable to withhold the sharpness from his tone.

Brice definitely noticed. "I'm sorry to bother you again, Lieutenant," he said. "Something just came in that I thought you'd want to know about."

"Oh?" Steve raised an eyebrow. "Does it have to do with one of our cases?"

"Yes, an unsolved murder. Do you remember the John Doe who was mugged and then stabbed about ten times?"

Steve frowned deeply. "We wrote that off as a gruesome robbery," he said.

"I know, Sir." Brice nodded. "But, well . . ." He held out a folder. "I'm not sure anymore that it was."

Steve took it. "What's this?"

"Lieutenant Anderson was called out on a homicide early this morning," Brice told him, watching as he flipped the file open. "It's another John Doe, same M.O., same stab wounds." He looked troubled. "The wounds are even in the same places as on the other body."

Steve stiffened, staring at the photographs and other contents of the folder. "So we might have a related killing on our hands," he frowned.

"That's how it seems to stand right now, Lieutenant. I thought I should bring this to you right away."

"Thank you." Steve got up. "Is Lieutenant Anderson here?"

"Yes, he is," said Brice. "He's in his office."

"Good. I'm going there right now to talk with him."

But before Steve could take another step, the phone rang. He sighed in exasperation. "Sergeant, will you go down there and tell him I'll be in to see him in a few minutes?"

Brice was already going for the door. "Of course."

"And I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier, Sergeant."

Brice looked back. "I understand, Lieutenant. It's alright."

Steve watched him leave as he lifted the receiver. "Lieutenant Drumm," he barked.

"Lieutenant, it's Burger," came Hamilton's voice. "Has anyone got in touch with you yet about Paul?"

"No," Steve frowned. "Why? Has something else happened?"

"Yes, it has. He's alive. And he's here in Los Angeles."

"_What?"_

Hamilton quickly explained the basics of the situation, including Paul's inability to grasp the reality of it. He finished with, "And there's something else, Lieutenant. He thinks he might possibly know something about an old unsolved murder you were working on—a stabbed John Doe."

Steve stared at the folder in his hand. "Does he know there was another one this morning?"

Now it was Hamilton's turn to exclaim in disbelief. "Another one? No, Lieutenant, I'm sure he doesn't."

"It looks like it could have been done by the same person," Steve said. "There's even the same number of wounds.

"I was just going to talk with Lieutenant Anderson about the new case. And then we'll probably both want to talk with Paul."

". . . I understand. Will you let him know or should I call him back and tell him?"

"I'll call him," Steve said. "Mr. Burger . . . how is he?" His gruffness had faded, his true concern showing through.

Hamilton sighed. "I guess he could be a lot worse," he said. His voice lowered. "But he could be better, too."


	4. Cloth

**Notes: I'll be honest, I have trouble writing interaction between Perry and Della. It doesn't always flow for me like it does when I write for some other characters. Sometimes it almost feels like pulling teeth! But, since I'm very aware that a good portion of the readers are likely Perry/Della fans, I really do try to put in scenes with them whenever I can. Perry and Della's relationship was even a key factor in **_**The Broken Ties, **_**although I admit it wasn't the central focus. But I hope all of you shippers like what I come up with for these two, even though it isn't and most likely never will stray into romantic territory. I do the best I feel I can. Their scenes aren't just part of the plot; they're written especially for you. Thank you for your interest!**

**Chapter Four**

Della was walking the floor of her apartment, her anticipation and conflicted feelings running high. She had barely slept for the remainder of the night. And with the onset of morning, she had popped awake very soon after at last dozing to sleep.

Of course, it was needless to say that she was overjoyed to have Paul back. But at the same time she was frightfully worried. In his current state of mind, was he really and truly "back"? And what if somehow he actually had committed a gruesome crime? Even if he had not been in his right mind at the time, would they be able to prove it?

And what about how Paul would feel if he had—Heaven forbid!—killed someone? Della doubted that under the circumstances he would ever get over it or be able to forgive himself.

The knock on the door brought her back sharply to the present. She hurried over and hauled it open. She was expecting Perry, and to her relief, she found him.

"Good morning," Perry smiled in greeting. "Are you ready to go?"

Della nodded, grabbing her purse from the table next to the door. "Perry, you said you'd tell me how things went with Paul when you took him home last night," she said as she stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind her.

Perry sighed. "Unfortunately, Della, if you're hoping to hear that Paul made some improvement during our conversation, there's not much I can really tell. He was still upset. He was willing to listen to my suggestions and seemed on the one hand to believe that I was actually there, but on the other hand there was a feeling that he had removed himself from the situation and was very distant."

"Oh Perry." Della could not help feeling sick inside. "Maybe you should have stayed with him."

"I offered to," Perry admitted while they walked up the hall and down the stairs. "Paul insisted he would be alright there alone."

"Have you talked to him today?" Della asked in concern.

"I tried, but the line was busy." Perry glanced to her. "Have you?"

Della shook her head. "I was afraid of waking him up," she said.

"He definitely needed the sleep. But he may not have gotten it." They arrived on the ground floor and were soon stepping into the sunny yet chilly Los Angeles morning.

Della looked to Perry with unbridled worry. "Oh Perry, what are we going to do?" she exclaimed. The entire situation was so overwhelming.

"Hamilton and his office will be doing all they can," Perry said. "So will the police. And so will we. But there isn't much we can do about the mystery until a possible victim is found. Meanwhile, there is something else very important for us to do, something we'll need to do all the more if a victim _is_ found." He and Della halted on the sidewalk and he turned to face her. "Be there for Paul."

Della nodded slowly. "I just wish there was something we could do to help him realize this is real." Her voice lowered. "It's so hard to see Paul this way."

"It is," Perry agreed. "And there must be more to it. More to why Paul attacked Hamilton, more to why he didn't come back, and why he _did_ come back now. . . ." He shook his head. "If only we could fit the pieces together. Right now we don't even have enough pieces to try."

"Do you think Paul might remember in time, now that he's here?"

"Hopefully," Perry said. "But what worries me is this. If he's really been the pawn in a cruel plot, then most likely, him coming back now wasn't an accident. So what else does this mysterious enemy have in mind for him?" Reaching the car, Perry opened the door for Della before going around to the driver's side and getting in.

Della entered and pulled down the seatbelt. "What about how Mr. Burger was knocked unconscious in the cemetery?" she wondered. "Could this mysterious enemy have done that?"

"I don't know." Perry strapped himself in and turned the key in the ignition. "I can't understand why they would. Were they trying to ensure a meeting between Hamilton and Paul?"

"Surely there would have been easier, less brutal ways to do that," Della said as Perry pulled away from the curb. "It must have been horrible for Paul to find Hamilton lying in the grass that way, especially when Paul thought he'd killed him."

Perry gripped the steering wheel. "Maybe that was what they had in mind," he realized. "What if they wanted Paul to see Hamilton unconscious and think he was going out of his mind seeing the dead body of a man he'd supposedly murdered?"

Della gasped. "Oh Perry, that's horrible!"

"But it could be highly possible." Perry's phone rang and he reached down to bring it up and answer it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Perry." It was Hamilton. "Have you got in touch with Paul today?"

"I tried. The line was busy."

"Well, he might have been talking to me. Or to Lieutenant Drumm."

Perry's eyes narrowed. "What's happened, Hamilton?" At his side, Della tensed.

"Too much. My contact's disappeared, after drugging my investigator. Paul wanted to know if there was an unsolved murder involving a body that was stabbed multiple times. And there _was_ a body like that, from an unsolved murder three months ago. Now Lieutenant Drumm tells me there's another one, found just this morning."

"Another one?" Perry pulled over to the side of the road to focus his complete attention on the call. "Do the police know the identity this time?"

"No. It's exactly the same as the first one, stripped of all identification. Lieutenant Drumm was going to call Paul and talk with him about it, and about whatever Paul might remember about the first victim. I'm going to the station to look at the information they have so far. I thought I should call and let you know."

"Thank you, Hamilton. We'll come to the station too." Perry glanced at the bewildered Della.

"Alright. I'll see you and Della there."

As Perry hung up, Della could see that he was troubled. "What is it?" she asked in concern.

"I'll tell you on the way to the police station." Perry pulled back onto the road. "This case has become even more complicated."

**Then**

"Mr. Burger! What happened?"

Hamilton winced, looking up at the bewildered and worried Leon as he slowly and carefully made his way into the office. He was still sore and aching from the attack the previous night. And the ache really went far deeper than the physical pain.

He collapsed into his chair. "It's a long story, Leon. I don't understand what happened or why." He raised a hand to his forehead, tiredly massaging it. "I'm not even sure I should say anything about it right now."

Leon frowned, following him into the inner office. Although he was holding several folders in his hands, he had all but forgotten their presence. "Mr. Burger, you're hurt," he exclaimed. "Surely you can't expect I wouldn't be worried." Although he did not press further about the cause, the unanswered questions hung in the air. He cared about his employer and wanted to know when something went drastically amiss.

"Oh, it's not that bad. I'll be fine in a day or two." Hamilton took his hand away but still looked both exhausted and sad. He debated with himself a moment before speaking again. "Leon . . . what would you think if, without warning, someone whom you thought you were getting along with better attacked you?"

Leon stared at him in bewilderment and confusion. "Was there any provocation for the attack?" he asked.

"No, not that you know of," Hamilton said.

Leon rocked back, considering his response. "I . . . I think I'd wonder if he'd suddenly lost his mind, Sir. And I'd wonder if there was anything at all I could have done to make him that angry. Unless I knew for sure that he would never do something like that if he had control of himself."

"He wouldn't," Hamilton said. But in spite of himself he wavered. "At least . . . I honestly can't imagine that he would." He shook his head. "Oh, I don't know, Leon. Something was definitely wrong. But what?"

At last he sighed, seeing his secretary's worried expression. "I guess you'll find out soon enough," he said. "Or you'll start to put the pieces together and come up with your own explanation. I'd rather you hear the truth, even though we don't have very much of it right now. I don't like to mention it when we have no idea what's wrong, but Paul Drake assaulted me last night. Now he's disappeared."

Leon's eyes went wide behind the frames of his glasses. "Paul Drake? But . . ."

"I know, it just doesn't make sense." Hamilton reached for his laptop. "There wasn't any rhyme or reason to it. I was talking with Perry when Paul came barreling out from around the side of Vivalene's old house and shot his fist into my face. And he kept coming at me and fighting with me until he threw me over his shoulder to the ground."

Leon was aghast. "I just can't think that of Mr. Drake," he said. "He seemed so apologetic when he came to see you after he had to pretend to be brainwashed by that Portman woman."

"Yes, and we haven't had any problems with each other since before then." Hamilton typed in his password and waited while the Desktop screen loaded.

"Are there . . . any charges out against him?" Leon was hesitant with his query.

Hamilton glanced at him. "I'm not pressing charges, Leon. At least not until I know why he did it. If he's not out of his head or sick, then . . ." He trailed off. "Then I guess that's when it would mean he did it on purpose."

"Well . . ." Leon shifted, uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "If you'll forgive me, Sir, I wasn't able to help overhearing some of the discussion surrounding Lieutenant Tragg's behavior last December and Captain Caldwell's several weeks ago. And . . . well, maybe it could be something like that?"

"I've thought of that," Hamilton admitted. "Perry has too."

After he had finally gotten back enough strength to stand up the past night, he and Perry had discussed the catastrophe. Hamilton had not wanted to have to think about mind-control (or Heaven forbid, _possession_). Although of course if it came down to a choice between that or Paul simply turning against him, Hamilton would rather consider even the horror of possession.

Leon could tell from Hamilton's guarded tone that he really did not want to have to discuss that line of conversation. And so, with diplomacy and sincere concern he changed the subject. "Mr. Burger, is there anything I can do for you? I can tell you're in pain, Sir."

Hamilton looked up at him, genuinely touched by the offer and the concern. "Thank you, Leon. I can manage. Although . . ." He paused. "I'd rather get up as little as possible before I have to be in court."

"Of course, Sir," Leon nodded. "But are you sure you should even go today?"

"I'll probably just stay at the table as much as I can," Hamilton confessed. "I'll be fine if I do that."

Leon was not surprised by that answer. It took something gravely incapacitating to keep Hamilton away from court. He had gone in all kinds of miserable states, from dealing with a raspy voice while getting over a bout of laryngitis to being forced to use crutches with a broken leg. Maybe he usually managed to not overwork himself long into the night the way Perry was prone to do, but he still pushed himself to his own limits.

xxxx

It was strange—no, downright frightening—to suddenly come back to yourself and realize that everything was a blank and you had no memory of what had transpired to get you into such a state in the first place.

Paul was wandering down a lonely street in a desolate part of Los Angeles when he finally became aware of what he was doing. He slowed to a stop, glancing around as he tried in vain to figure out what his purpose was in being there. Was he investigating for Perry? Just taking a walk? What was going on? Why did nothing sound right? More to the point, why couldn't he remember what _was_ right?

The last thing he recalled at all was that it had been night. Now it was day again—a cloudy and overcast day at that.

He reached for his notepad. He was missing what could be up to twelve hours. Maybe he had written something down that would help him bring them to mind.

But while he was raising his hand to his pocket he froze. There was something red all over his hand. It was streaked across the other one, too. He brought both hands up to his eyes, his heart gathering speed as he stared in horror and disbelief. "Blood," he whispered.

Why was there blood on his hands? Was someone hurt? Was he going for help?

He was clutching a cream-colored piece of cloth in one hand, too. It was also streaked with crimson. Where had that come from? It looked like it had been torn from a suit.

An image flashed through his mind, an incomprehensible, sickening image. He was wrenching Hamilton Burger's arm up over his head, then punching him in the stomach and thrusting him over his shoulder to the ground.

It wasn't a nightmare; he had really done it. It was coming back to him now.

But . . . why? _Why_ would he do something like that? Burger was his friend. They had come to an understanding. And yet Paul had felt an overwhelming feeling that he had to attack. That was why he had done it. And . . . how far had he gone?

. . . Hamilton had been wearing a cream-colored suit last night.

Paul stared at the blood with new comprehension. "No," he whispered.

His mind blanked out after the judo throw. What had happened next, however, now seemed perfectly clear.

It was Hamilton's blood on his hands. Paul had seriously hurt or maybe even killed him.

If Paul had been rational and fully under his own power, he would have immediately looked for a newspaper stand, no matter how grisly the cover story was. Instead he stayed far away. The newspapers would be all telling of the attack, he knew. He would be wanted by every police officer in the county. Not even Perry could save him now. And if he were guilty, which he surely had to be, he would not want to be saved. He would want to pay the highest price for the evil he had committed, no matter how unwittingly.

An hour later he sank onto an old and rotting bench, running his hands into his hair. He had tried to wash the blood out. Most of it had dispersed, but he still felt as filthy as if it had stayed right there. His hands were tainted. He would turn himself in that moment if it were not for the utter terror he felt over what he had done. If he could so mercilessly deal out injury and possibly death to Hamilton Burger, how could he be confident that it would not happen again, to the police or even Perry or Della?

The very thought sent an icy chill up his spine. He could not put them in danger. He could not take the chance at all. Even calling on the phone was off-limits, at least for now. He had to stay away, just until he found out why this had happened. Then he could ensure it would not happen any more. And then and only then would he return to accept his just punishment.

What had Burger thought, when Paul had attacked? If he had been murdered in cold blood? What _could_ he have thought? What if it had been reversed?

Paul was not sure what he himself would think, if Burger assaulted him like that. In his shock and hurt he might think that what that Portman nut had tried to make him believe was true, that Hamilton had always been using Paul and that now his usefulness had expired.

But Paul had rebelled against all of that witch's lies. She had only been preying on his past doubts and trying unsuccessfully to blow them out of proportion. True, he had struggled for a short time with his feelings, but that was over and done with.

. . . So did that mean that if Hamilton had attacked him, Paul would feel that something had to be wrong and that Hamilton was not acting on his own volition?

Even if he would, that did not mean that Hamilton had felt that way about being attacked by Paul.

"_**You were lying to me, Drake. You were lying all the time! You never cared about me, not really. You proved that last night."**_

Paul clenched a fist. Burger was not there. It was just in his head, just his envisioning of what Burger might tell him. He could hear the bitterness and hurt in the imagined but well-remembered voice.

"That's not true," he protested under his breath.

But who would believe him now?

Did he even believe himself?

"I never hated you," he whispered, echoing words he had spoken in what now seemed another lifetime. "I did care about you."

But if Hamilton was dead and his spirit lingered, aware of Paul's words, it would not make a difference now. There was no way he could forgive Paul for this.

There was no way _Paul_ could forgive Paul for this.

**Now**

Della was horrified by the time Perry informed her of what was going on. "Oh Perry," she gasped. "For Paul to remember details about a murder that really happened . . ."

Perry pulled in at the police administration building and turned off the engine. "It looks bad," he said with a deep frown. "But there's no physical evidence to connect him with the murder. They can't arrest him just on the basis of a vague memory he thinks he has."

"Even if there never is, what if Paul goes on thinking he killed someone?" Della pushed open the door and stepped onto the concrete.

"He'll never be the same," Perry said. He walked around the car and to Della's side.

When Della spoke again, her voice was low. ". . . And if he can never fully accept that Hamilton wasn't that person?"

Perry rested a hand on Della's back. "Let's not think about that."

Della dropped the subject as they walked to the front entrance. But in spite of her best efforts she could not stop thinking about it. Paul's attitude on the situation had haunted her throughout the past night and was continuing to do so now.

Paul had always been such a rational and non-violent person. This entire experience seemed like an unbelievable and even downright impossible frame. The only problem was that Paul had actually committed at least _some_ crimes. It had not been an impostor. Not unless something else had been in control of his body at the time.

"Perry . . ." Della looked up at her longtime employer and friend. "Do you think it's possible that we're dealing with something otherworldly again? As much as Hamilton and maybe even you don't want to think so?"

"It's always possible, Della." Perry pulled the door open for her and waited for her to step inside before he followed suit. "But I don't want to look at such possibilities right off the bat. Yes, we've had more than one brush with things that previously seemed impossible. But in all of our experiences through the years, those paranormal or science-fiction encounters have been the exception rather than the rule."

"I know. And I don't really want to believe it either." Della sighed. "It's just that all of this is so unlike Paul."

"That's an understatement." Perry glanced to the windows at the desk in the lobby. It did not look like any were free. Lines stretched at every one that was currently open.

"Perry!"

Perry and Della both jumped a mile. Hamilton was coming from the long corridor to the left. "Hello, Perry, Della," he said in greeting as he approached.

"Hello, Hamilton," Perry returned with a nod.

"Hello, Mr. Burger," Della added, trying to smile. Suddenly seeing him was making her remember the assault. She had been horrified and frightened for him when he had lain, stunned, on the grass. At last he had struggled up with the aid of Perry and Lieutenant Tragg and seemed to be physically alright, but she had still seen the image of his pain and hurt in his eyes. Hamilton had never been good at hiding his feelings.

"Have you been here long?" Perry spoke, breaking into Della's solemn thoughts.

"I just got here," Hamilton said. "Paul's in Lieutenant Anderson's office."

"I see," Perry mused. "We'd better join them then."

It was a strange sight that greeted them when they entered moments later. A folder lay open on Andy's desk, revealing graphic photographs of a mortally stabbed and lifeless body. Paul was peering at them, shaking his head at each one. "I don't know this guy," he declared.

Andy sighed. "Well, hopefully that's a good thing." He looked up. "Hello, Mr. Burger. Perry, Della."

The visitors returned the greeting. Paul looked up, adding his own. "I guess you know what's going on here," he said to Perry, who nodded.

"Hamilton told us," he said.

Hamilton went to the desk for a closer look at the photographs. He gasped, his eyes going wide. "Is this the body from this morning?" he demanded.

"Why, yes, it is," said Andy, regarding him in surprise. "What is it?"

"Paul didn't recognize him. But I do."

Everyone turned to stare. "Who is it, Mr. Burger?" Andy asked in amazement.

Hamilton picked up the top picture, holding it up enough for Perry to see it too. "It's my contact from yesterday," he said. "The one who said Paul was dead!"


	5. Alley

**Notes: I have a definite plan for this story, but I've been sidetracked with my current Livejournal writing project (which is also **_**Perry**_**-related). Hopefully the next chapter won't be so long in coming.**

**Chapter Five**

Paul paced up and down in the meeting room, tense and on edge. Perry and Della watched, worried and uncertain what to do.

"It's just one thing after another!" Paul cried. "It's all connected with me and it's driving me nuts! I think I remember something about someone being stabbed three months ago. Now that's real. And now the guy who was running around claiming I'm dead is dead himself. And I'm back in town for the first time in weeks!"

"I know," Perry frowned. "It's a disturbing coincidence. If it _is_ a coincidence. Paul, is it possible that someone wanted you to come back now because they were planning to kill that man? Maybe they want you to be blamed."

"Sure, it's possible." Paul threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "_Anything's_ possible. But why is someone out to get me? What did I ever do to . . . whoever's behind this?"

Della watched helplessly. Perry said, "It could be any number of people you investigated or helped put away. Let's try to think, Paul. Can you recall anyone who specifically announced a grudge against you?"

Paul stopped pacing and ran a hand into his hair. "No, I can't," he said.

"And then there's how Mr. Burger fits in," Della said. "Who really is the target? Paul attacked Hamilton. And someone else attacked him last night in the cemetery."

Perry nodded. "That's been puzzling me too." He looked up at Paul. "I almost wonder if someone is trying to deliberately sabotage your attempt at a friendship."

"But what for?" Paul cried. "And who'd want to? It sounds like something that Portman character would do. And she's locked up!"

"Mr. Burger talked to her three months ago, back when this all started," Della volunteered. "She didn't seem to know anything about it."

"And since her ego's the size of a small planet, I can't believe she wouldn't say _something_ about a twisted plot like this," Paul frowned. Of course, if Hamilton were really dead, Portman could be behind everything and this could be an attempt to get Paul off on the wrong track.

He looked away. He did not want to think like that. He wanted to be able to accept and believe that what he was experiencing now was reality and Hamilton was alive.

Even if that meant that he would be charged with murder once again.

As though reading Paul's thoughts Perry said, "And it also doesn't seem likely that if this is a frame against you where those stabbing victims are concerned, there wouldn't have been some evidence linking you to either crime. Instead we only have your vague memory that you _might_ have been at the site of the first one."

Paul nodded. "That's true," he conceded. Frowning he added, "When I came to I was holding a piece of cream-colored cloth. I figured it was from Burger's suit—and maybe it was—but then again I guess it could've been from that first victim."

"Have you told this to the police?" Perry queried.

"Yeah," Paul said. "They're trying to find out if the guy was wearing something that color. There was so much blood around that it was pretty hard to tell the original colors of anything."

Della inwardly flinched at that description. She had to be grateful that she had never seen anyone in such a state. The few times she had seen dead bodies were bad enough without picturing graphic mutilation.

"I'm wondering if we should go to San Diego after all," Perry mused. "Then again, it's possible they wanted you down there, Paul, because that was away from all the action."

"And then suddenly it's the right time for me to come back up." Paul sighed. "Why?"

"If we only knew." Perry crossed to the window. "Perhaps, if the police can learn more about this second victim, we'll at least be able to start somewhere."

"And what about the place where the first victim was?" Della piped up. "Maybe we should find out where it is. Maybe if you see it again, Paul, you'll remember something."

"It's worth a try," Paul said. "At this point I'm about ready to try anything!"

"That's understandable," Perry said. He crossed to the door. "I'll see if Steve knows anything more yet."

Paul did not protest. He leaned back, watching as Perry left. When the door shut after him, Della glanced back at Paul.

This was the first time they had been left alone since Paul's return. Della had not had a proper reunion with him before. She had to wonder, though, if a "proper" reunion was even possible until Paul could embrace the here and now.

She slid her pen against the cover of the notepad, keeping it held there by the cap. "We really have missed you, Paul," she said quietly. "I'm happy to have you back, mystery and all."

Paul looked to her. "Thanks," he said. "I wish I could say I'm glad to be back. I am if it's really what's happening, but . . ." He trailed off.

Della just nodded. "I know," she said.

Paul's next words stunned her. "Della . . . what happened after I ran off that night?" he demanded. "Was Burger hurt bad?"

Della started. She opened her mouth, then hesitated, not sure what to say. "Shouldn't you ask him that, Paul?" she replied at last.

"I did," Paul admitted. "And he said it wasn't that serious. I just wondered how someone else would tell it."

Della looked down at her notepad. ". . . I think his heart was hurt worse than anything else," she said.

Paul cringed but walked over to her. "Tell me what happened, Della," he pleaded. "Tell me everything."

". . . There's not that much to tell," Della said. "For several minutes he just laid on the grass, not moving. I was scared for him. I know Perry was, too. But then he finally stirred and talked."

"What did he say?" Paul persisted.

"He said . . ." Della peeked up but was not sure she could face Paul as she continued her explanation. "He said he couldn't believe that you'd just attacked him."

Paul turned away. ". . . You know, there were times years ago when I used to wish he'd just go away. I was sick of him always breathing down our necks. And then a few times something _did_ happen to him and he wasn't around for a while." He shook his head. "I never wanted to admit it, but I missed him. I never wanted him to really get hurt. And I sure never wanted to end up causing it myself."

"Oh Paul." Della regarded him with kindness. "You weren't yourself. You wouldn't have hurt him if you could have stopped it."

"But I had this feeling that I _had_ to attack him. Where did that come from?" Paul started to pace again. "What if that _was_ myself?"

Della got up. "Don't think about that, Paul," she pleaded. "Not until we've tried every other possibility."

"It's a little late to tell me that." Paul shoved his hands in his pockets. "I've thought about it practically non-stop since it happened."

Della looked down. "Of course.

"I was terrified when I saw what you were doing to him," she said. "I was afraid you were going to seriously hurt or even kill him." She looked up again. "But you didn't kill him, Paul. You didn't!" She rested her hand on his arm, desperate for him to believe her.

". . . I always want to believe that," Paul said. "Somehow, when you say it, I feel like maybe I can."

"You will, Paul." Della gripped tighter. _You have to._

xxxx

Hamilton, Steve, and Andy were all talking in Steve's office when Perry found them. As he knocked on the door, they looked up with one accord. "Come in," Steve called.

Perry entered. "Have you figured anything out yet?" he greeted.

Hamilton sighed. "Not much, Perry. We're all pretty confused by this new twist." He nodded to the open folder on Steve's desk. "My investigator still isn't conscious, either. Whoever drugged him gave him too strong a dosage."

"Will he be alright?" Perry frowned.

"Yes, he should be," Hamilton hurried to confirm. "They're just not sure when he'll come to. It could be as late as sometime tomorrow."

Perry nodded. "Where was the body found?"

"Just in an old alley in a less respectable business district," Steve said. "The same as the other one."

"They weren't found in the exact same location, were they?" Perry asked.

"No," Andy said. "Just similar areas."

Perry started to twist the ring on his finger. "Paul was thinking that if he went to the spot where the first victim was found, he might remember something."

"That's not a bad idea," Andy admitted. "It certainly couldn't hurt, at least."

"I was the one called out on that case," Steve said. "I'll go with you and show you where it is."

"I'm sure Paul will appreciate that," Perry said with a gracious nod.

"I'll come with you too," Hamilton spoke up. "I want to know what's going on here as much as you do."

"You must be a key element of our mysterious enemy's plans, Hamilton," Perry said. "You should most definitely be along."

Hamilton nodded. ". . . How is Paul?" he asked. "Is he, well . . ."

"Any closer to accepting the truth?" Perry supplied. "I'm afraid I can't say. I wish I knew that he was."

Andy frowned. "I just can't understand what happened to him." He shut the folder that he was holding. "And I don't like this idea he has that he might have seen the first victim."

Perry glanced over. "Why, Andy?" he said easily. "He might help you find the murderer."

Andy looked uncomfortable. "I think we both know that the problem is who the murderer might turn out to be," he said.

"Paul is not your murderer," Perry said, his tone firm.

"Unfortunately, under these circumstances, no one can really know the answer to that," Andy said. "None of us thought he would attack Mr. Burger as he did. But all of us saw that he did."

"Except me," Steve said. "I wasn't there."

"Yes, well . . . you can be glad of that," Hamilton said. He looked awkward now. Changing the subject he said, "Is Paul ready to go now?"

"Paul is ready to walk on the walls from running out of flooring," Perry returned. "He's more than ready to have something, anything to do on this case."

"Then let's go," Steve said. He walked to the door with purpose. Perry and Hamilton followed.

"Let me know if you find out anything important," Andy called after them.

"Of course," Perry called back without turning around.

xxxx

The spot where the first murder victim had been found three months ago was as described—old and unrespectable. Paul grew tenser the closer they drew to the area. What would they find? Worse, what might come back to him? What if he discovered he was a merciless killer?

He clenched a fist at his side. It was beyond agonizing to not know. Even if this was reality, and Hamilton was alive, Paul could have still murdered someone.

"_**You're making all of this up. You just want to think that even if you killed someone, it wasn't someone you know. You're trying to block out the truth of how you stabbed me to death."**_

Paul hated the sneering, bitter voice of Burger's ghost in his head. So what if it wasn't really there? That did not make it any less frightening.

What if it was all true?

And what if the ghost _was_ there?

. . . He hadn't even used to believe in them, and now look at him, wondering if the spirit of his possible murder victim was haunting him.

He glanced behind them. Burger was coming in his own car. He looked alive and well.

If only it were really that way.

. . . But Paul did not want to have killed anyone, Burger or not.

Of course everyone insisted he hadn't killed Burger. The police were doubtful as to whether or not he could have killed someone else, however.

Paul glanced up front at Perry and Della. They were quiet at the moment, also tense, and probably locked in their thoughts as Paul was. Paul wished that Perry could put the puzzle together in his mind, like he always did, and hit upon the solution before much more time went by.

Perry surely wished the same thing.

Perry began to slow when Steve stopped up ahead. "This must be it," he announced. He pulled over at the first possible place.

"What a terrible neighborhood," Della breathed, her gaze traveling over the crumbling paint, broken windows, and abundant graffiti.

"No kidding," Paul sighed.

They all exited the car. Hamilton pulled up behind them and alighted as well. Steve, already out of his own car, was standing at the head of an alley.

"It was here," he said. "Some of the bloodstains never did come off the asphalt and the walls."

"How awful," Della murmured. She did not go in, but stood looking from an angle near Steve.

Paul approached with the others. "Well?" Hamilton asked.

"What do you think, Paul?" Perry frowned into the dark space. There was only a small bit of light from a nearby street lamp, in addition to the moon and stars overhead. It was enough to reveal the shapes and shadows of various objects in the alley, but not enough to make something like blood clearly visible.

Paul stepped past everyone else and slowly walked into the narrow area. He had hoped for a flash of memory, something useful and helpful. Instead his mind was a blank. He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Nothing looks familiar?" Steve frowned. It was not a surprise, he supposed, but it was disappointing. And naturally, no one would be more disappointed than Paul himself.

"Nothing," Paul said in disgust. "Sorry for dragging you out here, Steve. It looks like there wasn't any reason for it." He walked ahead a bit farther, taking a large step over a spot hidden in the shadows.

Perry perked up. "What's on the ground, Paul?"

"Huh?" Paul blinked. "I didn't think anything was on the ground right here." He glanced down. "I don't see anything."

Hamilton stepped forward. "Then why did you act like you were trying to avoid stepping on something?"

Steve stiffened. "Wait a minute." He hastened forward with his flashlight, shining it on the spot. A rust-colored stain was revealed in the beam.

"Holy Mackerel," Paul gasped. "Is that . . . ?"

"Blood," Steve said grimly. "This is about where the body was found."

Della finally entered the alley as well. "But Paul couldn't see that in the dark," she said.

Paul nodded. "So it must've been a subconscious reflex. I really _was_ here that night." His heart gathered speed. What had happened then? Why couldn't he remember?

Now Perry was hopeful. Maybe at last they were starting to get somewhere. "Paul," he said, "why don't we see what else you might subconsciously remember?"

"Great," Paul said. _Or maybe not so great._ "How? Not a hypnotist, I hope."

Perry chuckled. "No, just by continuing to walk around. Don't think about where you're going; just start walking and we'll see what happens."

Paul shrugged. "Okay. I'm game." He moved forward. Making his mind blank was an impossibility, but he could easily refrain from thinking about where he was going. He just had to wonder some more whether he killed the poor guy who had been lying here. And even whether he had or had not was no guarantee where Burger was concerned. Paul had felt that urgency, that driving need, to attack him. He had completely spaced out after that. He could have killed both Burger and this other guy. Or one or the other.

Or neither of them, he tried to feebly tell himself. But keeping hold of and believing in that idea also seemed to be a near impossibility.

"Paul!"

"Paul, stop!"

He jumped a mile at Perry and Hamilton's voices. "What?" he exclaimed.

But then he saw what had them so concerned. He had wandered almost to the other end of the alley. Where a brick wall had been was now a gaping hole into the back of the building. He had very nearly stumbled and fallen down a staircase beyond the opening.

A staircase that was adorned with more rust-colored stains.

"What the . . ." Paul grabbed the doorframe to regain his balance. "What's this?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Steve said. "You came over here and pushed up on the wall, just as if you knew exactly what to do."

He shined the flashlight at the stairs. "These stains only start about halfway down." He walked down some of the steps to get closer. Paul and the others began to follow. "Look at this pattern. They're splattered on not just the stairs, but the wall on the left."

"What does that mean?" Della wondered.

Perry frowned, contemplating the mystery. He was not sure _what_ the stains' location meant. But he wondered even more why Paul had known to come here.

"Wait. Here's a bloodied handprint at the bottom. Two of them." Steve stared at the images. "Right in the same general zone, too." He glanced up at the group on the stairs. "Someone could have lost their balance and fallen down the stairs, then left these bloodied handprints after hitting the bottom and trying to get up."

"Someone like me, after getting my hands all bloody from the body in the alley." Paul's voice was grim.

"No," Perry said slowly. "You would have left blood on the brick wall in the alley."

"And there wasn't any there," Hamilton added.

"So what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Paul cried. "The lever was above my head. I couldn't have flipped it without using my hands!"

"Or another object, perhaps," Perry said. "Such as a wooden beam or metal pipe. And there's another possibility too."

"Oh yeah?" Paul wondered if he dare know. "What's that?"

Perry's expression was a mirror of Paul's somber voice. "That someone else was here that night and opened the panel, either for you or for himself. That person could have been the murderer. _He_ could have used a beam or a pipe to open the panel and then tripped and fell."

"The good thing is that we'll soon know who left these handprints," Steve said. "At least one of them is detailed enough to take the patterns of the fingerprints."

Paul drew a deep breath. "And then it could be jail for me again."

Hamilton came up to him. "There still wouldn't be enough to have you arrested," he said.

Paul glanced to him. "But you'll probably get enough," he said bitterly. "Who knows what else is in this place." He took a few steps ahead, into the darkness.

He stiffened when his foot bumped something on the cement floor. It lightly clattered against other somethings in a decidedly eerie manner.

"What's over there, Paul?" Perry called.

"I don't know." Paul took out his flashlight and beamed it just in front of him.

More bloodstains were on the floor here, including other handprints.

Possibly from the bony hand Paul had just accidentally kicked.

Della gripped Perry's arm in utter horror. "Perry!" she cried.

Everyone stared at the skeletal remains in horrified disbelief. Steve was the first to come to life, turning to hurry up the stairs. "I'll get another unit here on the double."

"Yeah," Paul said as he continued to gawk. "You do that."


	6. Chauffeur

**Notes: I thought that once I had my current Livejournal writing project done I would be able to devote more time to this story. But I will be taking up another challenge for the month of June. I can't pass up the wonderful prompts for June at 31 Days! It's another **_**Perry**_** project, and you're welcome to come along for the ride. Meanwhile, I do have an even better idea of where this story is going, so in spite of the continuing extra projects I hope that updates here will be more frequent.**

**Chapter Six**

It wasn't long before more police, the medical examiner, and a forensic team converged on the old building. Andy regarded it with a cursory frown as he wrote in his notepad. "Is this establishment even still in use?" he wondered.

Steve shook his head. "It's been vacant for years."

Andy sighed. "Well, I suppose that's not a surprise." He glanced in the direction of the bones. "What do you make of that?"

"It wasn't what I was expecting by any stretch of the imagination," Steve said. "I was afraid the handprints were Paul's. Now I don't know what to think."

"They could still be Paul's," Tragg said as he strolled over to them. "He could have found the body in the alley and then this place."

"Poor Paul," Andy frowned.

"There's handprints under the skeleton, too," Steve pointed out.

"Well, hopefully we'll have matches for everything soon," Tragg said.

The trio turned to look across the room where Paul was standing in silence, his hands in his pockets as he watched the medical examiner work.

"He already told me he still has no memory of this place," Steve said. "And certainly not the remains.

"Lieutenant Tragg, do you have any idea what could have happened to him?"

Tragg shook his head. "Nothing we haven't already considered. And all of those possibilities are still open."

"And with Mr. Burger targeted too, it's hard to know who they were really trying to hurt," said Andy. "Perhaps even both of them."

"What I've been trying to figure out is if this could have anything to do with the Heyes case," Tragg said. "Mr. Burger was trying the case at that time. If they could harm the prosecuting attorney and one of the key witnesses all at once, even completely disqualifying the latter as a competent witness, well I don't need to tell you that they'd have made quite a fancy dent in Mr. Burger's case."

"I wouldn't put it past Judge Heyes to come up with something like that," Andy said, a bit of anger touching his voice. "Do we know if he had any visitors around that time?"

"He didn't," Tragg said. "That's the problem. He did send a letter, but if there was any message in it, it was heavily concealed in code."

"To whom was it sent?" Steve wondered.

"His housekeeper," Tragg said. "He was advising her on what he wanted done with the property. It was innocuous, as far as we could tell."

"Have you told all this to Mr. Burger?"

Tragg nodded to Steve. "Uh huh. And it's certainly something he's considered too. But it still brings us right back to the problem of how and what was done. We have Heyes' housekeeper and the rest of his staff under surveillance. Mr. Vann's, too."

Hamilton wandered over to them now, somber and concerned. "What was this building used for back in its day?" he wondered.

Tragg glanced up. "It was, uh, a storage unit, I believe," he said.

"Owned by Greenbrier Enterprises?"

"Why . . . yes." Tragg blinked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

"And what's the significance?" Steve put in.

Hamilton sighed. "Greenbrier Enterprises is run by Mr. Vann," he said. "The same Mr. Vann I've been trying for child endangerment and a slew of other charges."

Tragg nodded. "I recognized it right away." He looked up at the ceiling beams high above them. "I wouldn't be surprised if that turns out to be very important indeed."

"I wouldn't, either, I have to admit," Andy said.

"You can bet I'll be asking Vann about the skeleton first thing in the morning," Hamilton vowed. "And then he'll probably clam up and refuse to answer."

"Or he'll give you the run-around," Steve added.

"Or both." Hamilton was frustrated. The cases against both Vann and Heyes were dragging on and on. And the longer they did, the more Hamilton was afraid that they would be set free. If he could tie this mysterious and old murder in with one or both of them, however, it might be the evidence he needed to keep them under lock and key. Even if he could never successfully prosecute them for the crimes they had committed while Los Angeles County had been under Vivalene's spell, he would be more than satisfied just to have them off the streets.

"How is Paul taking this?" Tragg suddenly asked.

"I don't think he knows _how_ to take it," Hamilton said. "He seems stunned, maybe even numb, to me." He stepped out of the way as the skeleton was removed from the building. "It's not every day you find something like _this._"

"That's an understatement," Andy frowned.

xxxx

Paul was staring after the medical examiner, his hands deep in his pockets. His heart was racing, his thoughts turning over and over in his mind.

He did not remember being down here or seeing that skeleton. He did not . . . and yet he did. The longer he lingered, the more familiar it all became. He was having clear flashes of memory in between things he recalled far more fuzzily.

_He found the body in the alley, lying in a pool of blood._

_He got up almost mechanically, crossing towards the part of the wall that opened._

_He pressed the panel. He took a step and fell._

All of that was just as they had already surmised. What if those memories were not real and instead were only influenced by those theories?

No, they felt very real.

_His thoughts were spinning._

_Burger was dead, murdered._

_Paul wanted to hurt the one responsible. He wanted the chance to beat him to a pulp._

Wait, what?

Paul took his hands out of his pockets, gazing at them in utter disbelief and confusion. _He_ was the one who had hurt or killed Burger. And yet if that had actually been his thought process from three months ago, it sounded as though he believed it had been someone else.

That did not make sense. When he had first come back to himself the following morning, he remembered attacking Hamilton. He _knew_ he was responsible, not some other person.

"Paul?"

He started at the sound of Perry's concerned voice. "Yeah?" He still sounded occupied; his thoughts were far away.

"Paul, are you alright?"

Paul had honestly not felt fine for three months. But he nodded. "I'm fine," he said.

Perry was not convinced. "If you want to talk . . ."

"Right now, Perry, I wouldn't even know what to say." Paul walked away, bound down by the bizarre memories.

Della looked after him in worry. "He acts like he might have remembered something," she declared.

Perry nodded. "But this isn't the time to ask, Della. Perhaps in the morning."

Della wrung her hands. "I'm so worried about him, Perry," she said. "I feel so helpless!"

Perry laid a hand on her shoulder. "So do I," he admitted.

"And that poor person," Della continued, looking to where the skeleton had lain. The forensics team was spreading out, examining the area for any possible clues as to what had happened.

"We probably won't know anything more until morning, at least," Perry said. It would be a long and unbearable wait. Hopefully they all, including Paul, would be able to hold out.

And hopefully whatever they learned would not dig Paul any deeper into this mess.

xxxx

Mr. Vann did not seem especially surprised to see Hamilton the next morning. He regarded the district attorney with his customary coolness and his vague but knowing smile as he was let into the interview room. "Why, Mr. Burger," he greeted. "I suppose you're here to discuss the case. It's probably going to be thrown out before long, whether the judge wishes it or not."

"Maybe so, Mr. Vann," Hamilton returned, his tone equally clipped. "But if it is, we both know you'd be a guilty man going free.

"What I'm here to ask you about is a building owned by your business, Greenbrier Enterprises."

"Haven't you already examined all such properties?" Vann still sounded unsurprised.

"Apparently we missed at least one," Hamilton said. He gave the address. "It's an old brick building with a secret panel in the back. Does it sound familiar?"

"Yes, I believe so," Vann said. "I was using it for storage, wasn't I?"

"What kind of storage, Mr. Vann?" Hamilton's voice hardened. "Dead bodies?"

Now Vann's eyes flickered with what could be genuine bewilderment. "Certainly not!"

"A skeleton was found in a secret part of that basement last night," Hamilton said. "And that building makes up part of the alley where a victim of multiple stab wounds was found dead three months ago."

"I was in jail three months ago, Mr. Burger," Vann smoothly reminded.

"I know, but your staff wasn't." Hamilton glowered. "One of them could have committed murder on your orders."

"I wouldn't have had any reason for it," Vann said. "And neither I nor my staff would be stupid enough to leave a corpse in the basement."

Hamilton gave him a hard look. "You're right; I don't think you would be. But don't you think it's a strange coincidence that it was found in a building owned by your company?"

"Coincidence, Mr. Burger?"

"That skeleton, or at least certainly the building, has something to do with Paul Drake's disappearance," Hamilton said. "And since he's one of my star witnesses against you, it looks more than a little strange." He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table.

Vann's lips curled in a cruel smirk. "I would say that one of your star witnesses beating you up before his departure is also more than a little strange."

"Someone did something to him that caused him to attack me," Hamilton said. "And if I find out it was someone working for you . . ."

"It's not my style, Mr. Burger," Vann interrupted.

"It was someone's style," Hamilton snapped, his eyes narrowing.

Vann shrugged. "You'll have to look elsewhere to find out whose."

Hamilton regarded him in disgust. "Alright then, I will." Taking up his briefcase, he headed for the door. "Take him back to his cell, please," he instructed the guard outside. He went past, furious and frustrated.

He had suspected the conversation with Vann would go about like that. But he had hoped that Vann might drop some kind of hint as to his involvement. Instead, Hamilton was getting the feeling that Vann honestly might not know the explanation for either the skeleton or Paul's attack. And if Vann didn't, who did? Heyes? Someone else?

"Oh, Mr. Burger!"

He turned at the sound of the voice. "Tragg," he said in surprise. "What is it?"

Lieutenant Tragg ambled up to him. "I've been looking for you," he said. "We got the reports back from the boys at the crime lab. Paul's handprints were definitely at that building. He seemed to have tumbled down the stairs, as we thought.

"But some of the other handprints aren't his at all."

"The skeleton's?" Hamilton supplied as they walked down the hall.

"That's right. Apparently the bones are what's left of a woman named Truth Pearson."

Hamilton frowned. "What else do you know about her?"

"Well, the most interesting thing is that she was dating the chauffeur of Mr. Vann." Tragg placed a hand in his pocket. "She disappeared two years ago under mysterious circumstances."

Hamilton stared at him. So there _was _a connection! "Has her boyfriend been told?" he demanded.

Tragg shook his head. "I thought perhaps you would want to come along for the questioning. Paul, too."

"I know I do." Hamilton glared back in the direction of the interview room. "I just played ring around the rosie with Vann. I lost."

Tragg half-smirked. "Well, that's not much of a surprise. He really might not know about this, anyway."

"When it was going on right under his nose?" Hamilton was surprised.

"He can't always be that smart, or he wouldn't have let Vivalene into his plans."

Hamilton sighed. "I can't argue with that.

"Alright, why don't we go get Paul? Perry and Della will want to come too."

"I sort of figured that," Tragg said.

xxxx

Vann's staff was still at his spacious house. Through his financial adviser they continued to receive their monthly salary for keeping the property fit, so they stayed in spite of their employer's current captivity. They still believed that he would not be convicted. If he were sent to prison they would all move on.

Paul shuddered as they drove up to the mansion on the hill. This place had never carried good memories for him or any of the others. True, they had defeated Vivalene and the others here, but only after a great deal of heartache and anguish. And it had continued afterwards with Hamilton's apparent death. Paul had hoped never to see the place again.

"This had better be worth it," he grunted as he, Della, and Perry exited the latter's car.

"We should be able to learn something here," Perry said. "What the police uncovered is surprising, to say the least."

"But it could be a coincidence," Paul said. "It might not have anything to do with what happened to me except that I fell down the stairs and saw the skeleton."

"That's true," Perry said. "Except for the fact that you apparently knew where to push the wall to release the lever. I don't know why you would know that if someone didn't tell you beforehand."

"And if someone did that, they must have known you'd see the skeleton," Della added. "So who would want you to?"

"If we knew that, Beautiful, we might have this whole case solved," Paul said.

They crossed to where Hamilton and Lieutenant Tragg were getting out of Tragg's car. "Well," Tragg greeted, "it looks like we're all here. Shall we go in?"

"I guess we'd better," Paul sighed, glaring at the house.

The chauffeur was outside, cleaning the old Rolls-Royce at the head of the driveway. He looked up in surprise when the gate creaked open and the quintet started up the pavement. "Who are you?" he called.

"Lieutenant Tragg, Homicide," Tragg called back, holding up his badge. "Surely you haven't forgotten us, Mr. Winters?"

Winters frowned. "I recognize you now," he said. He draped the cloth over the driver's side mirror. "What do you want this time?"

As Tragg came up to him he said, "Your girlfriend Truth Pearson was found last night. Unfortunately, she was dead. She died soon after she disappeared two years ago, from the looks of things."

Winters looked unaffected. "That's not a surprise, Lieutenant," he said. "I gave her up for dead months ago. I've moved on."

"Yes, I can tell," Tragg returned. "But we'll have to ask you some questions."

"I must have answered them two years ago," Winters retorted, folding his arms.

"But Miss Pearson wasn't known to be dead then," Hamilton spoke up. He regarded Winters with narrowed eyes, most unimpressed by his attitude.

"My answers would still be the same, Counselor," Winters shot back.

"Alright, how about this." Perry stepped forward, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "Miss Pearson's remains were found in a building once used as a storage unit by your employer Mr. Vann. Do you have any idea how she got there?"

Now what seemed to be honest shock flickered in Winters' eyes. "I don't know," he said. "She had nothing to do with Mr. Vann! She shouldn't have been there."

"Then perhaps she was placed there after she was killed," Perry said.

"Have you proved it was murder?" Winters shot back, looking from Perry to Tragg and Hamilton.

"No," Tragg had to admit. "With what was left of her, there weren't any signs of murder. But she was quite far away from the stairs leading into the basement. There weren't any indications that she simply fell down, either."

"Mr. Winters, could she have found out about something illegal that Mr. Vann was doing?" Hamilton spoke up. "And maybe he realized she knew and had her killed?"

"You've never proved that Mr. Vann did anything wrong," Winters retorted, his tone smug. "And surely you realize, Sir, that it would be utterly ridiculous for him to have Truth killed and then placed in his own storage unit."

"He wouldn't have arranged for her to be placed there, Mr. Winters," Hamilton said. "Maybe someone else would have, someone who hoped she would be found and Mr. Vann would be proven guilty."

"Then there were better places than an old storage unit," Winters said.

Now Paul stepped forward. "Look," he said. Although his voice was even, his frustration and anger was clear. "I found a dead body in an alley three months ago. Then I found a secret panel in the back of a building in that alley. I fell down the stairs and ended up in the same room as Miss Pearson. I want to know how I found the lever in that wall. It wasn't where someone would have easy access to it."

Winters faced him with a sneer. "Three months, you say? Then it must have been shortly before or after you tried to murder the district attorney." Paul visibly flinched. Encouraged, Winters took a step forward. "I would tentatively guess after, since you disappeared that night and this information didn't become public."

"We would have known earlier if it had been possible for Mr. Drake to tell us," Tragg growled.

"Oh, you have friends in high places, _Mr. Drake,_" Winters grinned.

"That's enough of that!" It was Hamilton stepping forward now, his eyes flashing with disgust and anger. "What we want to know is whether you had any involvement with what happened to Mr. Drake, or if you know who did."

"That's a No on both counts, Mr. Burger." Winters shot him a haughty look. "But if you're looking for someone who had motivation, there's far more likely candidates than me."

"Such as?" Hamilton returned the look with a dark glare.

"Why don't you try disgruntled clients for starters?" Winters replied. "Or maybe family or friends of people he's helped put away. My connection with Mr. Vann is business only. I have very little reason to get back at Mr. Drake."

"Unless he ordered you to do it to try to wreck the state's case," Tragg said.

"He didn't," said Winters.

"Then for now our business with you is done." Tragg glanced at the house. "Is anyone home?"

"Someone who could tell you more, you mean?" Winters gave a dismissive wave. "Go knock on the door and see if Corinne is feeling chatty today."

"We'll just do that," Tragg said. He led the way across the lawn to the porch. "Maybe we'll see you again when we come back."

"Don't hold your breath. I'm almost done here." Winters picked up the cloth, resuming his cleaning of the Rolls.

Della looked worriedly to Paul as they drew out of earshot. "Paul, don't take what he said to heart," she pleaded. "You weren't trying to kill Mr. Burger. If you had been, you would have done a lot more to him."

Paul shook his head. "_I_ don't even know what I was trying to do," he said. "How can you or Perry or anyone else hope to figure it out?"

"We _will_ figure it out, Paul," Perry said in determination.

Tragg reached the porch and rang the doorbell. After a moment the door opened, revealing a plump and sullen woman. She glared at the group through the loose wisps of dark hair falling across her face. "What do you want?" she demanded. "Don't bother showing me your badge, Lieutenant; I remember you."

"We want to ask you some questions about Truth Pearson," Tragg said. "Her remains were found last night, in a building owned by your boss."

She opened her mouth to reply but stiffened, staring past him at something else. At the back of the porch, Paul was staring right back.

"I remember you!" he cried. "You and some other dame were there that night! The night I attacked Burger!"

Her eyes widened. In the next instant she slammed the door in their faces.


	7. Investigations

**Notes: My current Livejournal project is taking up more time than I thought. I'm barely keeping ahead with the writing prompts, as the ficlets coming out are longer than most of the ones for the previous prompt sets. So I'm not sure how often this fic will be updated in June. But yay, here's one chapter, at least!**

**Chapter Seven**

Everyone turned to look at Paul in shock from his outburst. "What do you mean, she was there the night you attacked Mr. Burger?" Tragg demanded. "What was she doing?"

Paul stared at the closed door. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just know she was there. I've got this foggy memory of being in Vivalene's house and these two women hanging around. One of them was her."

"What about the other one?" Hamilton frowned.

"I don't know that, either." Paul shook his head in disgust. "She could have been someone else on the staff."

Tragg looked at the door in determination. "Then we'll have to bring out everyone in there. We need to anyway, to question them about Truth." He knocked again. All remained silent.

"Now she isn't answering," Della worried.

"We don't have enough probable cause to break it down, do we?" Paul grumbled.

"Eh. Probably not." Tragg knocked harder. "Police! Open up!" he barked.

At last the door cracked open. The butler peered out before opening it farther. "Yes?"

Perry frowned. The man sounded as though he had no idea what was going on or why the maid had slammed the door moments earlier. And maybe he really didn't.

Tragg held out his badge. "We were just talking with a maid concerning the young woman Truth Pearson," he said. "She abruptly ended our conversation by shutting the door on us."

"You must have said something that upset her." The butler nodded over his shoulder. "I saw her walk past a moment ago. She carried herself very stiffly."

"I see. Which way did she go?" Tragg tried to see into the room, but the man in front of him mostly blocked the view.

"Towards her room, Lieutenant. It's down the hall and to the left." For the first time something flickered in the butler's eyes. "But unless you have a warrant I can't let you through."

Tragg opened his mouth, about to reply, when Paul took over in disgust and frustration. "I'll just bet you can't," he snapped.

The butler looked to him, an eyebrow quirked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I told that lady I saw her three months ago in an old house in the Valley. That's when she slammed the door on us! She knew I recognized her and she didn't want to have to own up to what she was doing there. Well, I'm sick of being kept in the dark. Whatever she was doing, it happened right before I burst out of the place and attacked the district attorney." Paul glared at the butler, his blue eyes flashing with angered resolve. "I want to know what she might've done to me."

The other man's lips curled in a smirk. "Of course, I remember reading about the assault in the newspaper. But you must be mistaken, Sir. No one here was at any home in the Valley. We certainly had no part to play in what happened to you. Obviously you must have simply gone mad. Mr. Burger would surely agree."

"No, I don't." Hamilton came forward now, frowning at the arrogant servant. "Mr. Drake hasn't had any idea what happened to him that night. When he saw that maid, it was the first time anything seemed familiar to him. And I'll believe him over you. I want to know what that woman was doing there as much as he does."

Perry nodded. "And think about this. If she had nothing to hide, why did she run? She could have denied she was there."

The butler mulled over the problem in his mind for a long moment. At last conceding, he opened the door wider and stepped to the side. "Come in," he said, grudgingly.

"Thank you," Tragg responded. He stepped in first, followed swiftly by Paul, Hamilton, and the rest. "Will you tell her we're still here or shall we go and find her?"

"I'll take you to her." The butler swiftly and stiffly turned to head down the hall. "The last thing we need around here is more trouble with the police."

"That's the smartest thing I've heard from anyone on this staff since we came," Perry said.

The door was closed when they arrived. The butler knocked once, twice. "Helen? Those people are still here. You'd better come out and talk with them."

No answer. Frowning, he knocked again. "Helen!"

"Could she have slipped out and gone down the hall?" Hamilton wondered.

"Not without one of us seeing or hearing something," was the reply.

Della looked to Perry with worried eyes. "Perry, you don't suppose . . ."

Perry got the message. He stepped forward, his own eyes narrowing. "If she is mixed up in something illegal, such as what happened to Mr. Drake, could she be the type who would take her own life rather than to go through the rigors of a trial and prison sentence?"

The butler stared at him. "Why . . . no, I'm sure she wouldn't," he gasped. But Perry had frightened him sufficiently that he reached for a keyring in his pocket.

"Helen, if you don't open this door, we're coming in," he threatened. Upon the continuing silence he stuck a key in the lock and turned the knob. He tensed as he pushed the door open. But all that came to light was an empty room and an open window.

Tragg rushed over to it. "Footprints under the window," he mused. "There's no other sign of her, but she could still be on the property." He started to climb out as well.

The butler was at a complete loss. "What should I do?" he asked.

Perry turned to head out the regular way. "Get the other servants together," he directed. "Find out if any of them knows where Helen might go."

"And keep them where we can talk to them in a few minutes," Hamilton added as he followed Perry.

Paul was chasing Tragg out the window. He did not want to take the extra time to go all the way back to the front of the house. By then Helen could get away altogether. And the list of questions he wanted to ask her was increasing.

xxxx

Mr. Vann's property was extensive. Even after Tragg called for backup on his walkie-talkie it took the group—and the arriving backup—the better part of an hour just to cover the length of the grounds. And the only ones who had any smidgen of success were Paul and Tragg.

"This place is unbelievable," Paul declared as they wandered back towards the house after their vain chase. Having hastened around, desperate to find Helen before she could flee, they were now both worn out. The return trip was being made more slowly, due to that as well as Tragg's hope that they might find an overlooked clue.

"Vann was rolling in bread, so to speak," Tragg remarked. "Pity he won't be able to spend any of it now."

"Do you think there's much hope for a conviction?" Paul wondered. "The trial's been one disaster after another. I never used to think I'd want the state to win so bad, but if I knew where I could find any proof to keep that guy in prison I'd go looking for it right now."

"There's always _some_ hope," Tragg said. "Maybe not much, especially now, but Vann's had his finger in so many pies that Mr. Burger should be able to get a conviction on _something._ Same with Heyes. Although I'm worried myself that Mr. Burger will have trouble making anything stick with him."

"What's the problem?" Paul exclaimed. "I don't get it."

Tragg gave him a crooked smile. "Their lawyers," he said matter-of-factly.

Paul sighed. "Well, yeah, but that's not what I really meant."

Now they were approaching a patch of vines they had run past earlier. Paul frowned at them. It was bizarre, how some plants could form a thick enough curtain to almost be a wall. And from this angle it looked like something shiny peeking through. He stopped. "Hey, what is this thing?"

Tragg glanced at it. "An old tool shed. The police knew it was here; we saw it when we searched the property before." He sauntered over to the spot Paul had pointed out. "This is a window."

"If you knew the thing was here, why didn't we investigate it before?" Paul frowned. "Maybe she's hiding in there!"

"Unlikely. You can see none of the vines have been disturbed. Besides . . ." Tragg gestured at the plant without touching it. "This is poison ivy."

Paul jerked back. "Oh."

But as Tragg was about to leave, something caught his eye in what little he could see of the window. "What the . . ." He frowned, turning back for a better look.

"What is it?" Paul demanded.

"There _is_ something in there, something that definitely wasn't there before." Tragg met Paul's gaze in surprised shock. "It almost looks like some sort of mad scientist's laboratory."

xxxx

It took nearly another hour for the police to safely cut through the poison ivy and get into the shed. Once they did, some of the officers examined the machinery while others roamed the length of the building, searching for any kind of secret entrance. There was none.

Tragg frowned as he stood by, his hands in his pockets. "Obviously whoever brought this stuff in must have come through the front door before the ivy grew in," he said. "It didn't just magically appear out of nowhere."

"But what is 'this stuff', Tragg?" Perry asked. "It looks like what I saw in Portman's hideout."

"Uh huh. That's pretty much what it is." Tragg glared at the collection. "Tubes, vials, needles. . . ." He shook his head. "Some amateur Dr. Frankenstein was having a heyday with this junk. And just maybe we'll find Helen's grubby little fingerprints on it."

"What does it all mean? That's what I want to know." Perry glared at the display. "And what it has to do with what happened to Paul. Could those women have been experimenting on him? Why? What for?"

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, Perry?" Tragg frowned. "There's no proof they did any such thing."

"You and I both know that something was drastically wrong with him, Tragg," Perry said. "And he said two women were with him right before it happened. Now one of them vanishes and we find a makeshift lab in the backyard. From what we know about Portman, the pieces seem to be adding up."

"Granted, there's something funny going on here," Tragg grunted. "And nobody's laughing. Mr. Burger will probably want to have another talk with Portman. I imagine you and Paul will want to be there too."

"Yes, we will." Perry twisted the ring on his finger. "If we just knew who the second woman was. . . ."

"Well, Paul didn't recognize any of the other staff members," Tragg said. "It could have been a friend of Helen's."

"Or maybe someone working for Judge Heyes," Perry mused. "We should check them out next."

"I'll see about it," Tragg nodded. He moved to take Perry's arm and lead him out of the shed. "There's not much more we can do here. Let's let the crime lab boys have their free run of the place."

Perry allowed himself to be walked out. He was frowning, deep in thought.

"Oh," he said at last. "Were any of the other staff members helpful at all about Truth Pearson?"

"Not very," Tragg said. "Except for one. The chef said something interesting. Winters seemed to have a slight obsession with the girl."

"Are you saying maybe even he had a motive for getting rid of her?" Perry asked.

"It's been known to happen," Tragg said. "We'll keep him as a person of interest in any case. I thought he seemed a bit _too _uninterested in her fate."

"He seemed sincerely stunned at the news of where she was found," Perry reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. But he could be a good actor. Or maybe he even _was_ stunned. Maybe he didn't leave her body in that building. There's quite a few explanations, none of which would have to mean he can be let off the hook."

"True," Perry conceded.

xxxx

True to his word, Tragg arranged for them to speak with Judge Heyes' staff within the hour. The cars converged on the other villain's manor at the allotted time and the occupants slowly got out. Paul, more determined than ever, marched on through the open gates and up to the porch. The others quickly followed behind. Before anyone could knock, however, the door was thrust open by an unimpressed young man they remembered as Heyes' secretary.

"So, you're all here," he greeted. "That's good, because we want to get this over with."

"It'll be over soon enough, unless I recognize somebody," Paul retorted.

The secretary raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "We weren't told anything about why, just that the LAPD was asking all of us to get together and wait for them to show up."

"So let's get on with it," Tragg piped up as he walked on to the front of the line. As he displayed his badge the door was opened wider.

"The staff is in the living room, Lieutenant," the secretary said. "This way." He led the group through the parlor and to the left.

The collected people certainly looked cranky. One woman fanned herself in annoyance with a black, lace-trimmed fan. A man continually looked at his watch and another at the clock across the room. Upon seeing the group enter, a second woman stood. "Well, it's about time!" she grumped. "What is this all about?"

"Now, don't worry, Ma'am," Tragg drawled. "This shouldn't take long." He glanced to Paul, who was scrutinizing each person. "Well?"

Paul shook his head. "I don't know," he said in frustration. "Two of them seem like they _could_ be the other one, but it's not sharp enough in my mind. It was Vann's maid I remember more."

Everyone continued to look bewildered. "What _are_ you talking about?" growled one man.

"I'll explain," Tragg said. "We're looking for someone who worked with Mr. Vann's maid Helen about three months ago. They were with this man, Paul Drake, in an old house in the Valley. They may or may not have done something to him; we're not sure yet. But we believe that at least they know what _did_ happen to him."

"None of us associate with Vann's staff," the woman with the fan sneered. "Not unless we have to."

"Then none of you have anything to worry about," Tragg rejoined.

"I guess if you don't have anything to do with them you wouldn't know who might have been running around with Helen," Paul said. He wasn't sure whether these people were lying or not. And the more he looked at the two women he had wondered about, the less sure he was of anything.

"No idea," one of them insisted.

"So what is the Lieutenant talking about anyway?" asked the other. "Something happening to you? You look alright to me."

Paul did not want to go into it. But he wondered if in the telling he would get some idea of who was lying, if anyone was. "I'm sure you read about it in the paper at the time," he said, his tone clipped. "I attacked the district attorney."

"Oh. That was _you._" Both women looked most assuredly unimpressed, unconcerned, and unflattering.

"Maybe you just decided you wanted to see things in this county handled differently," smirked one.

"No, that isn't it," Paul retorted. "Somebody did something to me so I'd go after him. And I want to know who it was and why."

"Ask that Helen character," the first said.

"We'd love to," Tragg interjected. "Unfortunately, she's flown the coop. We have an all-points bulletin out for her now."

Perry stepped forward now. "I'm curious," he said. "You describe Helen as a 'character.' Do you know something about her that would make you say that?"

The woman shrugged. "We hear things. She was mixed up in some kind of rackets. And she was in a relationship with Vann's chauffeur."

"Winters?" Tragg exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Was this before or after Winters was involved with Truth Pearson?" Hamilton demanded, coming forward as well.

"During," was the smirked reply.

Della stared in amazement. No wonder Winters had not seemed broken up at the news of Truth's death. Moved on, indeed! And with this as the case, was it at all possible that Winters and Helen together had killed Truth? Or one or the other on their own?

She frowned deeply. Even if Winters had not been involved with Truth's death, he must be a sick man. Someone on Vann's staff had said that he was obsessed with Truth. And yet he had still become involved with Helen? Something was very wrong.

"What about Winters?" Tragg queried. "Do you know anything else about his activities?"

"He's definitely crooked," said the fan woman. "He's always got his fingers in several racketeering pies."

"Did Mr. Vann put him up to it?" Perry wanted to know.

A shrug. "He could have, at least for some of it. I think Winters was doing stuff on the side that Vann had no clue about." She smirked again. "If he _had_ known, he probably would have been mad that Winters hadn't let him be part of any of it. And he might have blackmailed or even fired Winters in retaliation."

"What a crew," Paul muttered, shaking his head.

"Pretty much," the woman smiled.

Tragg finished scrawling down the notations. "Thank you for your help," he said. "If you remember anything else, you _will_ call us, won't you?"

"Of course," she said with a flippant wave. "I have no reason not to."

"Is that all then?" the secretary wanted to know.

"For now," Tragg nodded. "Goodnight." He looked across the room as he spoke, addressing everyone, and turned to leave. "We'll show ourselves out."

"Fine with me," said the secretary. "I'm not a butler."

xxxx

Paul exhaled sharply as they left the mansion and walked into the night. The full moon shone large and bright overhead. "What a day," he declared. His exhaustion was very clear in his voice. He had no idea how to add up everything they had been learning. And he wondered how he would even think hard enough to try without having some sleep. On the other hand, he might be too tired and his mind too active to allow him to do so.

"You're putting it mildly," Tragg grunted. And it would probably be a long night for him. He had to get back to the station and continue to work on the Pearson case. He also had to look more deeply into the mess with Helen and any possible friends who could have been with her in Vivalene's house. He could easily picture himself not making it home before midnight.

Hamilton was worn out as well. The day had been spent questioning people and looking for Helen. And the sight they had found in the old shed was appalling. It could have been there for any number of reasons, of course, but considering their experiences of late it was impossible not to at least imagine up the possibility of Helen behaving as a mad scientist.

That idea disgusted and infuriated him. He had to wonder how people like that even lived with themselves. They must be devoid of every bit of conscience. And he would not stand for such inhuman treatment towards anyone. It was even worse when the suspicion was that it was towards someone he already knew and cared about.

He snapped back to the present as Della looked to Perry. "Perry, you heard what that woman said about Winters and Helen," she said. "Do you think . . ."

"I think the whole matter bears investigating," Perry said. "And I'm sure Mr. Burger and Lieutenant Tragg agree."

"It's possible one of them killed Truth Pearson," Tragg conceded with a nod. "Don't worry, Perry; I'll definitely look into it."

"So it's back to talk to Vann's staff again," Paul said with a sigh.

"Uh huh." Tragg wandered down the driveway, heading towards his car. As he arrived, the radio receiver came to life. He grabbed it. "Tragg," he barked into it.

"Lieutenant?" It was Sergeant Brice. The others could not help overhearing what was said next.

"What is it?" Tragg asked, leaning on the car door.

"The fingerprint reports are in from the crime lab. Some of them do belong to Helen Watkins."

"What about the others?" Tragg could tell from Brice's tone that something had stunned him. The rest of the group paused, wanting to hear the rest of the report.

"Some belonged to an unknown person. And the rest were Alice Portman's."

Paul stiffened. Perry, Della, and Hamilton stared.

Tragg frowned. "Portman, eh? Did someone call the asylum to see if we could talk to her about this?"

"It's all arranged, Lieutenant. And there's something else. The reports are that yesterday, she had a visitor."

"Yeah? Who?"

"Someone who called herself Jennifer Pearson. She's Truth's sister."


	8. Revelations

**Notes: It is thanks to an amazing episode of **_**Hawaii 5-O **_**(the original) that I pieced together what happened to Paul. I was puzzling over exactly to tie that together until I saw that episode a month or two ago.**

**Chapter Eight**

The asylum had not changed the mad woman. That was obvious from her composed walk and the quiet, knowing smirk on her lips as she was brought into the room. She regarded her visitors with the same maddening spark of science and insanity that had led her to pursue her reconstruction of a murdered Air Force Captain.

"I knew you'd be back sooner or later," she greeted. "Once you had more of the facts in hand."

Hamilton's eyes flashed. "You told me that you weren't involved with what happened to Paul!" he snarled. "And that you didn't even know about it!"

"I knew, but I wasn't involved. Not directly, anyway." Portman sat at the table and clasped her hands upon it.

"But indirectly you were," Perry summarized.

"I listened to the problem and instructed the interested parties on what to do." She sounded proud and smug about what she had done. "Of course, that wasn't as good as actually being there, but it had to do."

Paul clenched his teeth behind his lips. He would have a hard time not losing his temper around this witch. "And who _was_ interested?" he demanded. "Helen Watkins and Jennifer Pearson?"

She nodded. "Or at least, they were acting on behalf of the true interested parties," she said.

"And would that be Heyes or Vann?" Tragg broke in.

"Possibly. They really didn't say."

"And what about the dead girl, Jennifer's sister Truth?" Tragg persisted.

"She was dead long before any of this transpired, Lieutenant. As I'm sure you know."

"Yes, but there could still be a connection." Tragg leaned on the table with one hand. "And right now you're the only one we can talk to. Helen Watkins has flown the coop and police are still trying to locate Jennifer Pearson."

"I don't know why you think I'd tell you anything, Lieutenant," Portman said.

Perry's patience was unraveling. "Because, _Doctor,_ we know how much you enjoy bragging about your so-called scientific breakthroughs. And if you had any involvement in causing Paul to attack the district attorney, you would relish it."

Portman's eyes glittered. "You're astute as always, Mr. Mason. Yes, I was highly intrigued over what happened, and my part in it.

"What happened was that Miss Watkins came to me, telling me she and a friend wanted to engineer a situation that would create a serious setback in Hamilton Burger's current court cases. They hoped to discredit one of his star witnesses, as well as to bring some heartache and pain to him personally. Miss Watkins asked me if there was a way to turn Paul Drake against him. She was aware I'd already tried in the past."

Paul stiffened and shifted in discomfort at the reminder. Portman had tried not only to do that, but to turn him against Perry too. And Paul had wrestled a bit with some rising inner demons before beating them back. That very fact had been one of the things that had continued to most bother him about this entire mess. He was terrified that some remnants of his deep-seated prior dislike of Hamilton had been renewed and had caused him to tip off the scales of sanity while under some influence. Finding the lab on Vann's property only made him fear all the more.

"What did you tell her?" he asked, clenching a fist. He had to face the truth, whatever it was and no matter how horrible.

"I told her that if she wanted a swift solution, the best thing to do would be to first place you in a state of narco-hypnosis." Portman watched with pleasure as not only Paul, but everyone there stared in shock.

"Narco-hypnosis?" Tragg cried in disbelief.

"Yes, because he just wasn't susceptible enough to be placed under hypnosis any other way. He has a very strong will." Portman smirked. "That's what makes him a most fascinating subject."

"You're making me feel like a guinea pig," Paul growled. "And actually, that's pretty much exactly what I was turned into. So they put me under and then made me hate Burger?"

"Not at all. What I told Miss Watkins to do was far more ironic and tragic." Portman sat up straight, her excitement over her project obvious in her eyes. "I told her to make you believe that Mr. Burger had been murdered by an impostor, who had then assumed his place. And that the impostor was the man with your group at Vivalene's house."

The color drained from Paul's face. _"What?"_ he and Hamilton burst out in unison.

Portman leaned forward. "That was the twist that made everything so fascinating!" she exclaimed. "You attacked Mr. Burger not out of hatred for him, but out of your love and friendship with him and your hatred for an impostor you believed had killed him!"

Paul stumbled back, raising a shaking hand to his forehead. It was too much to take in. His heart pounded furiously. He had been led to believe in a false impostor and had nearly killed the real Hamilton Burger because of it. At the moment he had no memory of those feelings and thoughts, but he had no doubt that Portman was telling the truth.

And while Paul was trying to process it all in his spinning mind, Hamilton's temper was snapping. "What kind of soulless monster are you?" he snarled. It was more like Perry to say something like that, but he could not help it. He was appalled and enraged and in disbelief. Everything that Paul had been put through, and all the horrible things he had been thinking about himself, and now to find out _this. . . ._

Portman smiled. "Only a scientist devoted to the causes of truth and the workings of the human mind, Mr. Burger. Yes, it's true that people can't be made to go against their true nature while under hypnosis. But what's surprising is what _isn't_ against their true nature, with a bit of careful manipulation. That was why I agreed to assist Miss Watkins and her friend, to perform such an experiment."

"But even when Paul thought he was attacking a murderer, he refused to kill," Perry proclaimed. "That may have been why he ran—to stop himself."

"Or maybe he even realized deep down that it really was Mr. Burger he was hurting." Della stepped forward, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "And he couldn't stand that."

Paul glanced at them, their words penetrating the fog of confusion sweeping over his mind. Could he have known? When he came back to himself he had known. He hadn't even remembered anything about an impostor.

Memories flashed into his mind—the horrible, timeworn images of him hitting and beating Hamilton. Everyone was yelling for Paul to stop. Perry and Burger and the police were all grabbing for him, trying to restrain him.

But Paul was in a blind rage. He had to keep attacking. He hated the man he was striking. He _hated_ him.

"_You killed him!"_ he screamed in his mind, unable or unwilling to speak aloud.

Why? Was that important? Could they have not wanted him to talk because they did not want him to reveal what he actually believed about Burger right then?

"_You murdered him in cold blood and then took his place like he was nothing to you. You deserve to die. You __**should**__ die."_

But then, as the man crashed in pain to the ground after Paul threw him, other thoughts pierced the anguished fury in Paul's mind and heart. What was he doing? He was taking the law into his own hands, not allowing for the justice for which both Perry and Burger had always fought.

"_**Paul . . . what are you doing? I don't want you to do this. I don't want to see you like this, poisoned by hate. I've seen it from so many murderers I've prosecuted over the years. Don't let yourself be numbered among them."**_

That was when Paul had turned and ran.

Maybe there had been a post-hypnotic suggestion that had made him forget about the impostor. Or maybe he had blocked it out himself, although he could not understand why he would have instead accepted the truth of having attacked the real Burger.

That really did not matter to him now. He could not stay in here, seeing Portman watching him with such glee, realizing the full extent of what he had done, what he _could_ have done.

He was not a murderer. He knew that now. He remembered it. It had been his own imaginings of Burger talking to him that had brought him to his senses and made him stop.

But he had still attacked Burger. He had still hurt him. And knowing the reason why left him reeling in a state of confusion and bewilderment and disbelief.

"Get him out of here," Tragg was saying now, gruff but genuinely concerned. "Sergeant Brice and I will stay and finish this."

Perry nodded. "Let's go, Paul," he said, reaching for his friend's shoulder.

Paul pulled away. "If you don't mind, Perry, right now I need to be alone. You can stay here if you want." He headed for the door, all other sounds fading to the back of his awareness.

Della stared after him. "Perry . . ." She looked to the lawyer in alarm. "Are we really going to let him go?"

"I'm sure he'll just stay outside, near the cars," Perry said. His eyes were narrowed and he was clearly worried, but he made no move to leave. "We'll make sure, but we won't follow. Not until we're done here. He does need time alone, after all this."

Hamilton, pushing down his fury and worry, went to the window. "That's what he's doing," he reported. "He's pacing on the sidewalk in front of your car."

Perry nodded. "Then we'll stay here and see what else we can get out of the mad doctor." His pinched tone and his furrowed brow spoke volumes of how angry he was underneath the collected exterior.

"Name-calling is unusual for you, Mr. Mason," Portman remarked.

"You _are_ mad!" Perry burst out as he whirled back to her. "And the women you helped can't be much better. To do something that cruel to someone so undeserving . . . _two_ someones so undeserving . . . !" He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. "There had to be more of a motive than just that they were trying to decimate Mr. Burger's case."

"Why? Because they must surely have something personally against either Mr. Burger or Mr. Drake to be willing to do something like that? Come now, Mr. Mason, you know as well as I do that for some people, such acts are nothing more than a job, an assignment, a means to a fat cash payment." Portman leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. "You're allowing your emotions to run wild. I consider it a privilege to be witness to such a rare phenomena."

Now Della's patience was gone. She stormed around the table, facing the wretched woman point-blank. "I've heard just about enough of this," she cried.

"So have we," Tragg cut in. "I know we're all appalled and revolted by this display. But the fact is, this character still has information we want. All of these explosions aren't helping things. As impossible as it sounds, we'll have to be patient a little while longer."

Hamilton let out a sigh of agreement. "You're right," he said. "Perry, Della . . ."

"You don't have to say it, Hamilton," Perry said. "Somehow we'll have to find a way to control ourselves."

Della looked down but nodded. Of course Tragg was right. It was just so difficult to keep silent any longer.

Tragg looked back to Portman. "Now then," he said, "what else will you tell us?"

xxxx

Paul had been pacing around, stopping, and pacing again for he did not know how long. When the electronic doors of the building opened, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared up at the street light above him. "Well?" he mumbled.

"Well, it's hard to know what to say."

He started. He had not expected it to be Hamilton Burger's voice answering him. He spun around. Burger was coming out alone. "Where's everyone else?" he asked.

"They're coming," Hamilton said. "They're just waiting a few minutes while Tragg talks with Portman's doctor. Either they're too lax about visitors around here or Helen Watkins used some crazy cover story to get in."

"What did that Pearson woman want yesterday?" Paul looked away again, not wanting to meet Burger's eyes.

"She came to deliver a message to Portman from a friend of hers. It said that you were back in town, just as planned." Hamilton sighed. "It's starting to look like she or Helen might be responsible for my contact's death. Or at least, they probably know who did it."

"You think one of them is the serial killer?"

"I don't know, Paul." Hamilton shook his head. "A lot of things still aren't adding up."

"Yeah, like me getting myself doped up and made to believe that you're not you."

Hamilton sighed, quickly growing awkward at the mention of the subject they were trying to avoid. "Well . . . to be honest, I guess I have to say I'm almost relieved," he said. "I've thought all this time that maybe you really hated me deep down, even though I tried not to think it. Now, to find out you were tricked into thinking I was killed and that there was an impostor. . . . I'm amazed you got that upset about it."

"Me too, I guess," Paul grunted.

He turned to look at Hamilton in astonishment. "Are you saying you're not even still upset that I attacked you? After what we learned? It's . . . it's just so _wrong._"

"I'm upset that they did that to you," Hamilton said, his tone darkening. "And the cruel irony that Portman found so hilarious is disturbing and sickening." He folded his arms. "I'd hope that, if there ever was someone you were that furious at, you'd be able to restrain yourself from doing any permanent damage. Which, thankfully, you did that time. But . . . considering all the circumstances, no, I can't be that upset that you attacked me."

Paul swallowed hard. Looking down, he managed a nod.

They really had come a long way.

xxxx

Andy sighed as he leaned back in the seat. He and Steve had been staking out Jennifer Pearson's house for what seemed hours. She was not home and no one knew where she was. So this was the only thing they could do for now, at least until they could get hold of a court order to enter her home. Lieutenant Tragg had promised to see to that after speaking with Portman. He hoped that they would have enough evidence against her by then for a judge to grant the order.

"I always hated stakeouts," he mumbled. His hat slipped halfway over his eyes and he wearily pushed it up again.

"Who didn't?" Steve remarked wryly. "In fact, does anyone ever come to like them?"

Andy stretched his legs, which wasn't easy in the cramped space. "I doubt it."

Steve rested his elbow on the passenger side door. "Let's run through the facts of the case again," he said. "Maybe something will jump out at us."

Andy doubted it, but he was agreeable. "Well, so far there's been three mysterious deaths—Truth Pearson two years ago, the first stabbing victim three months ago, and the new stabbing victim the other day. Paul Drake stumbled across the first stabbing victim and possibly even Truth Pearson during whatever happened to him three months ago. And the second victim had tried to convince Mr. Burger that Paul was dead."

"For all we know, Truth could've been stabbed too," Steve remarked. "There was enough blood around to account for it."

Andy nodded. "If there had been more of the body left, or even if the knife had pierced a bone, we'd have some evidence of that."

Steve wordlessly agreed. "Now, according to Lieutenant Tragg, Vann's chauffeur Winters acted strange about Truth's death. It didn't seem to bother him at all, because he'd 'given her up for dead' long ago."

"And another member of the staff, Helen Watkins, ran away when she was cornered and identified by Paul as one of two women who was with him three months ago."

"Then Paul and Lieutenant Tragg found that laboratory on Vann's property."

"With Helen Watkins' and Alice Portman's fingerprints all over the equipment inside. And they learned that Winters had been going with Helen at the same time he was seeing Truth."

"A lot depends on what Helen and Jennifer Pearson could tell us," Steve growled.

"So of course they're the ones we can't find anywhere," Andy exclaimed in exasperation.

"And we still don't know why Paul was picked out as a good target, or even what, exactly, was done to him." Steve glowered into the night. Of all the answers he wanted, that was at the top of his list.

"Maybe hopefully Lieutenant Tragg and the others are getting some of those answers from Portman," Andy said.

"I don't know that I'd even trust anything a quack like her would say." Steve's tone had darkened.

"I wouldn't like to, either," Andy said. "But right now we don't seem to have much choice."

"More's the pity." Steve sat up straight. "So that's pretty much our case right there. Except for the fact of the two stabbing victims being killed in exactly the same way. There's some kind of rhyme or reason to it. It makes sense to the murderer, but no one else."

Andy stared into the distance. "There were ten stab wounds," he said slowly. "Six were in the torso, while one each had been delivered to the arms and legs."

"And in the torso, three were in front and three in back."

"There was one to the heart, one to the stomach, and one to the right chest."

Steve shook his head. "If there's some kind of pattern in that, I'm not getting it. The ones in the back were in the shoulders and the spine."

Andy perked up. "I wonder if the medical examiner checked Truth Pearson's bones for any strange nicks in the spine."

"Maybe not, but even if there is something, what does that prove?" Steve frowned. "Would the same killer murder someone two years ago, drop out of sight, and then pop up again twenty-one months later?"

"One wouldn't think so, no." Andy rested an arm on the steering wheel. "Unless . . ." He paused. "Maybe that's just the way he kills. Maybe it's a personal symbol to himself that isn't meant to be deciphered by the police or anyone else."

"Just about anything sounds possible by now," Steve said.

Andy did not reply. He was perking up, staring at Jennifer's house again. "I just saw a light go on in the garage," he declared.

"What?" Steve leaned forward. "You're right. Maybe she sneaked in from around back and left her car somewhere else." He reached for the door. "Let's go."

"And be careful," Andy cautioned. "If she did all that, it may be because she knows we're out here."

If she did, she made no move to extinguish the light. The two policemen were able to get up to the garage door and knock without incident.

"Who's there?" The voice was gruff and defensive.

"It's the police," Steve called back.

Silence. "Okay. Just a minute." The garage door began to creep up, courtesy of an electronic door opener. Jennifer Pearson—with baggy clothes, messy carrot-colored hair pulled back with a headband, and an unimpressed visage—frowned at them. "What do you guys want?"

Andy and Steve both showed their badges. "Ms. Pearson, we've been trying to contact you to let you know your sister's body has been found," Andy began.

Jennifer's eyes flickered, but just barely. "Where?"

"In an old building that used to be a storage center for her boyfriend's boss," Steve said.

Jennifer considered that information. "Guess there wasn't much left by now."

"No," Andy said. "I'm sorry, Ms. Pearson."

Jennifer turned away with a shrug. "Always figured she was probably dead. Figured that rotten beau of hers probably did it, too."

"Winters?" Steve stepped forward. "Why did you think that?"

"He didn't really want her. He liked that other girl, Helen something or other, better." The bitterness was obvious in her voice.

"I see." Andy shifted. What they needed to say next could make her become very uncooperative. He dreaded it. "Ms. Pearson, we're also here to ask you about a visit you made to Alice Portman, a patient in the local asylum."

To their surprise, she shrugged again and turned back. "Yeah, sure. I got nothin' to hide. A friend of mine wanted me to see her."

"Which friend was that?" Andy asked.

"Jeremy. Jeremy Clyde. Don't ask me why he's got two first names. Always thought it was weird when that happened."

"Nevermind. Why did Jeremy Clyde want you to see Alice Portman?" Steve demanded.

"Said she had some stuff he wanted."

"And did you get it?" Andy glanced up from his notepad.

"Sure. She just scribbled it on a piece of paper and gave it to me. Weird stuff, some kind of formula or code or something. I couldn't make any sense out of it."

Steve nodded. ". . . Ms. Pearson, your neighbors thought you weren't home," he said.

"I was," she retorted. "They just didn't know it because they didn't see my car."

"And where is your car?" Andy peered into the garage. There was certainly no car in there.

"Loaned it to somebody."

"Who?"

"Jeremy, a couple of days ago."

"Ms. Pearson, we knocked on your door earlier, but you didn't answer," Andy pointed out.

"I was asleep," was the reply. "I haven't been feeling too well lately, so I used a sleeping pill. Knocked me right out."

Steve snapped his notebook closed. "Would you mind coming down to the station and answering a few more questions for us?"

"Sure," she said. "I don't care." She looked to the car across the street. "That yours?"

"The department's," said Steve.

"Nice ride." She pressed a button on her remote and let the garage door shut. "Let's get going then. I'm not under arrest, right?"

"That's right." Andy marveled at her congenial nature as they walked to the car. As they arrived, he opened the back door and moved to scoop up the photographs and other content he and Steve had been glancing over during the long stakeout. Before he could slide them into the file folder and shut it, Jennifer gasped.

"That's Jeremy!" she cried.

Andy straightened. "This?" He held out the top photo, which was of the most recent stabbing victim.

"Yeah." Jennifer looked away, shaking. "He's dead. My gosh, he's really dead!"


	9. Hypnosis

**Notes: Happy Independence Day, fellow American readers! And to readers from other countries, happy 4****th**** in general!**

**Chapter Nine**

Two hours later, Jennifer was still being questioned and the police were bewildered. Tragg paced the floor, his hands behind his back.

"This is quite a confused case we've got here," he said. "Thanks to Ms. Pearson, it's become even more twisted."

"Do you believe her story, Lieutenant?" Steve asked.

"Someone must be lying," Andy put in with a frown. "Paul remembers two women present. And you say Portman told you that Helen Watkins was working with someone. But now Ms. Pearson insists that she wasn't involved other than to try to recover some information Portman had that this Jeremy Clyde wanted."

"And Jeremy Clyde was the man who tried to convince me that Paul was dead," Hamilton put in from where he was sitting at the table.

Tragg nodded. "There's really no evidence that the woman Helen Watkins was working with was Ms. Pearson," he said. "It could easily have been someone else. We should know soon enough, if Ms. Pearson's prints match the unknown person's that we took from the conglomeration in the shed."

"If I could just remember more," Paul said in frustration. "It was Helen Watkins talking to me, I know that much. The other woman stayed in the background. Jennifer Pearson _might_ be her; I just couldn't tell."

"Then there's the death of Truth Pearson," Tragg said. "But that happened two years ago, so there can't be any connection with this."

Perry leaned back. "I wonder," he mused.

Everyone turned to stare in surprise. "Oh come off it, Perry," Tragg exclaimed. "What possible relevance could there be? Other than that Truth's body was found near the first stabbing victim."

"I don't know," Perry said. "I just can't help thinking that we're overlooking something that involves her."

"Our testing wasn't wrong about the time of death," Tragg said. "And surely this plot hasn't been going on for over two years. It's supposed to be recent, something meant to disrupt Mr. Burger's case against Heyes and Vann."

"I know," Perry said, but his vague tone spoke loud and clear that he was not convinced.

He looked to Paul. "It seems to me that your memories are the key to this whole problem, Paul."

"Don't I know it," Paul grumbled. "I've been trying to press myself to remember, but . . ." He shook his head. "It's just not coming back."

"What if we were to try to induce their return?" Perry said.

Paul started. "And just _how_ would we do that?" He gave Perry a look that said he was not sure he was going to like this idea.

"By hypnosis. Through a qualified practitioner, of course."

Paul gaped. "After all the trouble that hypnosis has already caused, you want me to go through it again?"

"It wouldn't be narco-hypnosis this time, Paul," Perry said. "It would be completely voluntary. And it would only be to see what else you know about that night."

Hamilton frowned. "Perry, I don't know that that's a good idea. Paul's right; he's had enough bad experiences with hypnosis to last anyone a lifetime. Anyway, there's still people who don't think hypnosis is really as effective as it's reported to be. For all we'd know, what Paul 'remembers' is just what he's been told to remember."

"And he should remember being told that, too, if we dig deep enough into his subconscious," Perry said.

Della kept quiet, looking back and forth between Perry and Paul. She was not sure what to think. They _were_ getting desperate for answers. But she hated to think of putting Paul through anything more to do with hypnosis.

At last Paul heaved a resigned, discouraged sigh. "I was afraid it would come to this," he said. "Alright, Perry. It's against my better judgment, but I'll do it."

Perry smiled and stood, briefly resting a hand on Paul's shoulder as he headed for the door. "I'll call a hypnotist I know."

"Why not just use a police psychiatrist?" Steve suggested. "There's one right here on duty tonight."

Paul shrugged. "One is just as good as another, I guess."

Perry considered that. "It would save some time," he mused. "Okay, Paul, if you're game we'll try that."

xxxx

"Mr. Drake, it's three months ago, on the night you accompanied the police on the search of Vivalene's house. You've become separated from the main group. How?"

Paul leaned back on the psychiatrist's couch, his eyes closed. "I think I hear something coming from one of the secret tunnels," he said. "It's right there, so I'm opening the panel and walking in. I didn't alert anyone because I don't want to disturb whoever's in there."

"And who's in there?"

"Some dame I don't know. I'm asking her what she's doing in here. She says she'd been waiting for me. Now she . . ." He flinched. "She's sticking me with something! Some kind of needle! There's not even any time to stop it."

Della clenched a fist in disbelieving anger. Hamilton and Perry tensed.

"What are you doing now, Mr. Drake?"

"Everything's getting fuzzy and weird. She's telling me to follow her, so I am. I don't really know why; I want to turn tail and run. But I can't. What she gave me is really making me space out. She's taking me to where this other woman's waiting."

"Do you know her?"

". . . Yeah, just vaguely. I've seen her in court. She has something to do with Vann. Someone on his staff, I think."

Della's eyes widened. "Paul said before that it was Helen Watkins who talked to him. Now it sounds like it was the other woman!"

Perry held up a hand. "Just a minute. Paul didn't consciously remember being stuck with the needle. He only remembered where both women were present. And according to Paul now, that came afterwards."

Della leaned back. "That's true," she conceded.

"Now this other woman's talking to me," Paul was saying. "She says . . ." He gripped the couch arm. "She says Burger's dead, killed by someone who's taken his place."

"And how do you feel about this?"

"I'm . . ." Paul's voice hardened. "I don't know what I am. The guy's right here, with our group. He's outside. He killed Burger in cold blood! And he's _right here!_" He got off the couch, walking to Hamilton. As he raised his fist, Hamilton tensed. He held up a hand, bracing himself to stop Paul if need be.

The psychiatrist quickly intervened. "So you attack that man outside on the grass. But you stop yourself. Why?"

Paul fell back. "I . . . I know Burger wouldn't want me to do it. And I . . ." He shook his head. "I'm not a murderer. Even if that impostor is. I can't kill him, not like this."

"You're driving away from Vivalene's house. Where do you go?"

"That dame told me something else," Paul said. "She said to come to this alley in a bad part of town. So I go there. I get out of the car and . . ." He walked halfway across the room and stopped, dropping to one knee. "Somebody's just lying here on the ground. I'm trying to see if he's still alive, but he . . . he's been stabbed so many times. His blood's all over me!" He slumped back, staring at his hands.

"Oh, how horrible," Della whispered. "Poor Paul."

"What do you do now, Mr. Drake?"

Paul got to his feet. "I have to get out of here, to call the police, something. . . . But I remember I'm supposed to press a brick on the wall." He walked over to the wall and reached above his head, pressing on it. "This panel's swinging open. I go down the stairs . . . _gah!_" He collapsed on the couch. "I fell down the stupid stairs. I slipped on something; it looks like blood."

"Not the blood dripping from your hands?"

"No." Paul stiffened, staring across the room. "There's something in here. Another body. It's . . . it's the woman from Vivalene's house! Not the one that told me about the impostor; the other one."

Now everyone was stunned and staring, except for Perry. His eyes narrowed in thoughtfulness. Quietly getting up, he walked to the psychiatrist's desk and opened the Internet browser on the laptop.

Baffled, the man started to rise. "What are you doing, Mr. Mason?" he exclaimed.

"It's alright," Perry said. "This will only take a minute. It might be important."

The psychiatrist frowned, but accepted the response. Looking back to Paul, he said, "Are you checking to see whether this woman is also dead?"

"She's dead," Paul said. "I don't know why I was told to come in here. Are they trying to frame me for these murders? It'll work, especially after I already beat up that impostor. I have to get out of here and find that second woman. I have to know what's going on and what they're trying to do to me!"

Perry turned the laptop to face Paul. "Ask him if this is the woman whose body he found," he requested, indicating a photograph on the website of the _Los Angeles Chronicle._

Hamilton gaped. "But Perry, that's . . ."

"Nevermind, Hamilton, I know," Perry returned.

The psychiatrist shook his head. "Mr. Drake, I want you to look at this picture," he said. "Do you recognize this woman?"

Paul looked over. "That's it!" he cried. "That's her—the one who drugged me! It's _her_ body in this old building!"

The psychiatrist went rigid in disbelief. "Are you absolutely sure, Mr. Drake?"

"It's her," Paul repeated. "I wouldn't forget. I got a good look at her."

Perry nodded and swung the laptop back around. For a moment he studied the article and photograph of Truth Pearson. Then he closed the browser and stepped away.

They had a lot more investigating to do.

xxxx

"Mr. Drake, have you ever found the second woman, the one who told you about the impostor?"

"Yeah, I have," said Paul. "She's meeting me coming out of the building. She's telling me I've done everything I'm supposed to, but I saw something I shouldn't. I'm not supposed to remember the girl in the building or that she was at Vivalene's house. I'm not supposed to look at any newspapers. And I'm supposed to go to San Diego and stay there until three months have passed. Then I'm supposed to come back to Los Angeles."

"Is she telling you _why_ you're supposed to do all these things?"

"No. She just says that I'll remember I'm supposed to do them, but not why and not that she told me. I'll wake up when it's daytime and I also won't remember why I attacked the guy at Vivalene's place."

"Is there anything else?"

"No."

"Do you ever see that woman again? Or anyone else wanting to talk with you about the same matter?"

"No."

"Then for three months you stay in San Diego, wandering aimlessly and never looking at a newspaper?"

"Yeah. I keep feeling like the answer is in San Diego. Maybe it's because she told me to come here. Maybe not. I never had any luck searching. The most that I've ever got here is a clunk on the head in a rotten barge."

"Alright, Mr. Drake. When I count to three, you will awaken and remember everything you've told me, as well as anything else significant that I haven't asked you. One. Two. Three."

Paul rocked back, staring around the room in bewilderment as he emerged from the trance. He sank against the couch, overwhelmed. "Oh brother," he declared. "If that wasn't a trip."

"On several levels," Perry said. "Paul, the woman you identified as the one who drugged you is Truth Pearson."

"_What?"_ Paul leaped up and made a beeline for the laptop. Soon he had the article back on the screen and was staring at the photograph. He slumped back. "It really is," he gasped. "But that's not possible! She was a rotting skeleton at the time."

"There's two possible solutions to this mystery," Tragg said as he came forward. "Either someone tampered with the lab results, to say the skeleton was Truth when it wasn't . . ."

"Or someone was impersonating her," Andy finished. "To implicate her as well as to give the illusion that she's still alive."

"Or both at once," Perry mused. "If she's still alive, someone could have tampered with the lab results _and_ impersonated her."

"The big question is _why,_" Steve exclaimed with a wild gesture. "What would be the point?"

"That," Perry said, "is something we'll have to find out. Let's talk to Jennifer again."

Paul cringed. "She's not going to like it when I accuse her sister of drugging me."

"Well," Perry smiled, "since that's impossible, try saying she just _looked like_ her sister." He clapped Paul on the arm as he went past.

"Oh, that's a big help," Paul grumbled.

Perry paused at the doorway, looking back to the psychiatrist. "Thank you for all of your help, Doctor."

He received a nod in response. "You've got a twisted case like nobody's business. Good luck solving it."

"We sure need it," Paul grunted.

The police and Hamilton went out last, following Perry and the others. Tragg was frowning, deep in thought. "I'm getting old," he complained. "I know I recognize Jennifer Pearson from somewhere, but I can't think _where._"

Andy perked up. "Do you think she was in the jail before, perhaps visiting a friend or even Truth?"

"Could be," Tragg said.

"She didn't seem to recognize _you,_" Steve noted.

"Or she's deserving of an Academy Award," Tragg said. "Blast, if I could just remember where I saw her!"

"It'll come to you," Steve said.

Andy nodded in full agreement.

"Oh, Lieutenant Tragg?"

Everyone looked up as Sergeant Brice hurried over to them. "What is it, Sergeant?" Tragg asked.

"The report came back on the fingerprints," Brice said. "They don't match."

Tragg threw his hands in the air. "One more dead end," he growled. "What about Ms. Pearson? Is she still here?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, but she's starting to get impatient to leave," Brice replied.

"She'll be free to go before long," Tragg said. "We're going back to talk with her again right now."

"Alright, Lieutenant," Brice said with a nod.

xxxx

Jennifer was anxiously shifting when the group at last re-entered the interrogation room. "I was startin' to wonder if you'd forgot about me," she said. "Look, I've been cooperative and all, and I'm happy to help you guys out, but I'm getting antsy here. I need to get going!"

"Oh, now, what's your hurry?" Tragg said with faux friendliness.

"The _time,_ Lieutenant," Jennifer exclaimed. "I get edgy when I stay too long in one place. Makes me walk the walls. That's why I work as a tour guide. I can keep movin' all day."

"But it's the same surroundings, over and over," Tragg remarked.

"Who cares, as long as I'm free to walk around?" Jennifer gave him a pleading look. "Can't you finish it up? Please?"

Tragg nodded. "We're almost done," he said. "But uh . . . first I'd like to ask you a question."

"Ask away!" Jennifer spread her arms wide. "Just do it and get it done!"

"Alright. You look very familiar to me. Have we ever met before?"

Jennifer blinked in surprise. "I sure don't remember it."

"You're sure now."

"Of course I'm sure!" Jennifer rose from the chair, her hands pressed hard into the table. "Look, what is this?"

Tragg straightened. "Ms. Pearson, do you know anyone who might want to impersonate your sister? Or why they would want to?"

Jennifer's eyes widened in perplexity. "What the heck? No!" she cried.

"Let me explain." Tragg nodded to Paul. "Mr. Drake here was put under hypnosis and finally remembered what the other woman in Vivalene's house looked like. And he positively identified Truth from the _Chronicle_'s photograph." Paul nodded in the affirmative to Tragg's statement.

Jennifer just continued to stare. "Well, I don't know why anyone would impersonate Truth!" she cried. "It doesn't make sense to me! Especially since you said she's been dead for two years!"

"She has," Tragg said. "Unless, of course, someone in the lab lied."

"Why would anyone do that?" Jennifer retorted.

"If they were mixed up in this whole mess, they might," Tragg said.

"I can't help you, Lieutenant!" Jennifer insisted. "If you think one of your lab men screwed up, go talk to them."

"I just might do that," Tragg said. "But for now, how about giving us a little more information on Jeremy Clyde?"

"Jeremy?" Jennifer shrugged. "Sure. What do you want to know? I already told you how I met him and all; nothing special about that."

"And you have no recollection of how he became involved with Alice Portman?"

"Not that. He just didn't want to tell me. Said it'd be better if I didn't know." Jennifer frowned. "I didn't like that much. I told him so, too. He said maybe someday I'd get it."

"Why did he want you to get the information from her?"

"He just said he thought no one would ask me funny questions. It'd be weird if he went back there, you know. When he was a doctor at the place."

Tragg froze. "He was a doctor?" His eyes pierced Jennifer's. "There was no record of a Jeremy Clyde on the staff. In fact, so far my men haven't found any trace of anyone named Jeremy Clyde at all!"

"It wasn't his real name." Jennifer looked down. "He wanted to be an actor. That's what he took up after the nuthouse let him go. And Jeremy Clyde was his stage name. He wanted me to call him that too. He was trying to start over altogether, make a new life for himself."

"So you were lying when you said you didn't know why he had two first names," Andy broke in. "You knew he'd made them up himself!"

Jennifer glowered at the table. "I knew that, yeah. I just didn't know why he picked two first names. So I wasn't lying."

"What was his real name?" Tragg frowned. "And why was he let go?"

"Jason Fleur. And I dunno all the details; he said something about the other staff members thinkin' he was too interested in some of the patients, like Portman. And that they didn't want him encouraging her crazy ideas."

Tragg whipped around to look at Sergeant Brice. "Was the police department informed of any of this?" he exclaimed.

"Not that I know, Lieutenant." Brice frowned too. "I can try to find out."

"Do that." Tragg turned back to Jennifer as Brice departed. "So why was he so interested in Portman's crazy ideas?"

"Well, don't get me wrong, Lieutenant. It's not that he was a mad scientist too or anything like that. Like I said, he wanted to be an actor. And he thought knowing about people from all kinds of lifestyles would help him figure out how to play them realistically. So he latched on with Portman because he wanted to know what made her tick."

"I see." Tragg leaned back. They were certainly learning some intriguing and confusing information. At the moment, he was not sure how it connected with anything else.

Hamilton stepped forward now. "As I told you before, Ms. Pearson, it was Mr. Clyde who came to me insisting that Mr. Drake was dead. Do you have any idea what his reasons were for that?"

Jennifer shook her head. "Nope. I'm sorry, Mr. D.A. I don't have any idea."

Steve suddenly perked up. "Wait a minute." He looked to Tragg. "I think I remember the thing about Clyde being sent away from the asylum. They said he wasn't even a doctor at all, but that he'd forged his papers."

Tragg only stared for a moment. "Well, I can't say I'm too surprised. He sounds more dedicated to acting than practicing medicine."

"You've got that right, Lieutenant."

Everyone looked up as Brice returned, shuffling through several sheets of freshly printed paper in his hands.

Tragg gestured in bewildered exasperation. "For Heaven's sake, man! What is it?"

"Jeremy Clyde, or Jason Fleur, is in our records," Brice said. "He's been kicked out of several jobs because he didn't really have the qualifications or the training, even when he had papers stating he did. And there's one other thing, Lieutenant. He always worked with a girl."

"A girl, eh?" Tragg looked back to Jennifer. "Well? Any idea who that was, Ms. Pearson?"

"Wasn't me," Jennifer said. She drew a shaking breath. "It was Truth."


	10. Psychotic

**Chapter Ten**

Paul was restless and pacing, uncharacteristically roaming Hamilton's office while everyone discussed the case. On Hamilton's laptop, court records of Jason Fleur's past, unrelated offenses filled the screen.

"I didn't think it was possible, but this case just got ten times more confusing!" Paul cried, gesturing wildly in the air.

"It's strange, alright," Perry nodded with a frown. "Fleur always worked with a girl. And according to Jennifer, after Truth's disappearance he worked with an actress paid to impersonate her."

"And Winters brought her in; don't forget that," Paul said.

"There wasn't any logic in it," Perry said. "Everyone knew Truth was missing."

"Maybe Winters really was obsessed with Truth," Della broke in.

"Well, maybe he was," Hamilton frowned. "It's the only thing that makes some kind of sense. The problem is, being obsessed with her doesn't make much sense. He was carrying on with Helen Watkins at the same time!"

Perry nodded. "Jennifer certainly didn't believe in some kind of obsession," he said. "She thinks Winters killed Truth."

"And I must've seen the impostor laying dead in the warehouse," Paul frowned.

"You would've had to," Tragg said. "Although it's odd; both girls being killed in exactly the same location."

"And why was the impostor killed?" Perry wondered. "And Jason Fleur, for that matter?"

"Like I said, ten times more confusing." Paul suddenly ground to a halt, a light going off in his eyes. "Hey!"

Everyone jumped a mile. "What is it, Paul?" Perry asked.

"I just remembered something," Paul said in triumph. "That psychiatrist told me I'd remember anything else that might be important. Well, in San Diego, I found out that the barge I was knocked out on was owned by Winters!"

"What?" Tragg stared at him. "What would he be doing with a barge down there?"

"That's what I wondered. Why not keep it up here?" Paul leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "When I went to the docks to check it out, I think I found at least some of the answer. There were a lot of crates on that thing. I pried the lid off of one and saw a bunch of what looked like artifacts. Figurines, jewelry, you name it."

"He was smuggling?" Della was bewildered.

"Well, we already knew he was involved in several different rackets, Della," Perry said. "And I remember that Heyes' staff said he might be doing something illegal that Vann was unaware of."

"Vann's a big collector," Hamilton said slowly. "Under Vivalene's spell he had even more artifacts than usual."

"And who's to say at least some of that stuff isn't smuggled goods?" Paul said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Maybe Winters was getting stuff for Vann and some for himself on the side."

"Or even more interesting, maybe he was siphoning off Mr. Vann's selections and keeping some for himself, free of charge, and planning to sell them out later," Perry said.

"Vann would've hated that," Paul said with a shake of his head.

"To put it mildly," said Tragg. "It's an interesting theory. In any case, I'm going to contact the San Diego police right now and see what they know about that barge. Unfortunately, we'll need more than your memories to get a search warrant, Paul."

"Yeah," Paul sighed. "Unfortunately." He watched as Tragg went to one of Hamilton's telephones and dialed.

Hamilton looked back to him. "Do you remember anything else?" he asked.

"Nope," Paul returned. "It was right about then that someone knocked me over the head. When I woke up, the crates were gone."

"How convenient," Steve frowned.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Paul muttered in irritation.

Perry stood. "Maybe San Diego is important to this case after all," he said. "At least as far as getting answers goes. We might find them there. And perhaps more, as well."

"What are you talking about, Perry?" Hamilton asked in surprise.

"We might find Helen Watkins there, too," Perry said.

"Well, maybe so," Hamilton frowned. "And maybe we'll find that she took the barge out and escaped."

"Unlikely, Hamilton, if it's really as bad off as it seemed when Paul was there," Perry said.

Paul shook his head. "It sure didn't seem like anything sea-worthy. I thought it might crumble then and there."

Hamilton crossed his arms. "So am I to understand, Perry, that you think Helen might have gone to San Diego for some other reason? And let's not forget that Paul was told to go there. Why would they do that, when there was a chance that Paul would find out the truth?"

"I don't know," Perry frowned. "This might be all the more reason that we should go to San Diego."

"They probably never thought Paul would find that barge," Della said.

"Possibly," Perry agreed.

Tragg hung up the phone. "Well, the San Diego police are very interested in what's going on at that barge," he reported. "In fact, they've been trying to spy on it for the last several days and nights."

Perry looked over, intrigued. "Why are they so interested, Tragg? What have they already seen going on there?"

"Oh . . . it's not so much what they've seen as it is this incident of Paul being reported dead," Tragg said. "After that got straightened out, they _did_ manage to get a search warrant. Of course, the place was empty when they went."

"Of course," Perry frowned, twisting the ring on his finger. "But they haven't seen anyone lurking about?"

"Uh uh. They're not giving up, however."

"Good. They shouldn't."

Della regarded Perry questioningly. "Well, what's the verdict? Are we going down to San Diego or staying up here?"

Perry shook his head. "I'm not sure what we should do, Della. But . . ." He spun around to face Lieutenant Tragg. "I think we should go back to Mr. Vann's home."

Tragg was not expecting that. "What for?" he demanded. "The staff should all be in bed by now, anyway."

"Just humor me on this, Tragg," Perry said, touching the older man's upper arm.

"Mr. Burger and I do a lot of that," Tragg grunted.

"And doesn't it generally pay off?"

"Generally." Tragg shrugged. "Not all the time."

Perry was content with that response. "Let's see what happens this time."

xxxx

Vann's mansion and the surrounding property seemed still as the group approached, with Tragg in the lead. But he was soon frowning, both puzzled and disturbed as he looked through the bars of the heavy gates. Something was sprawled across Vann's Rolls-Royce. Something that really shouldn't be there.

Della could not refrain from a gasp at the sight. "Perry!" she said in horror. "Is that . . ."

"A human body," Perry declared.

Tragg pushed on the gate. It slipped open, creaking with an eerie sensation. He advanced up the driveway, frowning more at the puddles of blood splattered on the concrete and over the old car. When he drew close enough to see the identity of the lifeless form, a chill ran down his spine. In over thirty years, scenes such as this still bothered him.

"How did you know, Perry?" he asked, sensing that the lawyer was close behind. "It's Winters." He grabbed the unfortunate man's wrist. "He's been stabbed, just like the others." His eyes widened. "Only he's still alive!" He whirled to face the group. "Call an ambulance, now!"

Andy immediately hastened back to the squad car to do just that.

Perry surveyed the gruesome scene, his frown deepening. "I didn't know, Tragg," he said. "I expected we'd find _something_ here. I had no idea it would be this."

"Well, I wish _I'd_ known," Tragg growled. "He could die from these wounds long before the ambulance ever gets here."

"We'll do what we can to stem the flow of blood," Perry vowed. "There should be a first-aid kit in my car."

"I'll get it," Paul volunteered.

"And I'll find out what the rest of the staff is doing," Steve said in resolution. He started up the walkway to the porch. "If any of them knew about this, and just sat there and did nothing . . . !"

Della set her purse aside, moving to assist with the hapless man as he was gently lifted to the ground. She wanted to believe that Steve was wrong in his suspicions. Sadly, she knew he could be right. There _were_ people so heartless that they would see this sight and do nothing. And whatever criminal acts Winters had committed, this was still a horrible fate.

She and others in the group worked for the next several minutes, fighting desperately to curb the tide of blood. Della could not refrain from shuddering as they worked. The wounds, and the sheer number of them, were horrific.

Suddenly she was angry. What kind of purpose or pattern could such injuries have? What kind of person would stab someone over and over until the body was like _this?_

Winters groaned, stirring weakly under her and the others' care. "Helen . . ." He turned his head to the side.

Everyone was instantly at attention. "Mr. Winters, this is Perry Mason," Perry said, leaning forward. "What about Helen? Did she come back?"

Winters coughed. His lips were flecked with red. "Helen . . ." He clenched both of his fists against the pain. "It was her."

Hamilton's mouth dropped open. "_Helen_ is the one who did this to you?" he exclaimed.

Della's hands froze in the middle of her task. Did that mean Helen had killed those other people too? Was she completely psychotic? Her stomach plunged.

"Helen . . . did this." Winters was looking up at Perry now, his eyes focused. "She said she'd . . . she'd had it with me." Anger and hatred flashed over his face. "_She_ killed Truth. And Lara."

"Lara?" Tragg echoed. "Who's Lara?"

Winters gritted his teeth against the agonizing pain. "Lara is . . . she could've been Truth's double. Helen . . . she kills anyone she thinks is standing in my . . . way . . ."

Paul stared. "So why did she stab you?"

Winters smirked. "_I'm_ standing in my way now, I guess. She's . . . out of her mind."

"That goes without saying," Paul declared.

Without warning Winters shot out, gripping Hamilton's wrist with a bloodied, trembling hand. Hamilton flinched, stunned. "Helen's set her sights on Mr. Vann, too. She loves him, and she . . . she hates you for locking him up. She wants to kill you . . . all of you, for doing that. The stab wounds . . . there's ten of them. They're . . . they're for . . . all of you. One for each." His eyes flickered and sank closed, his grasp on Hamilton loosening as he fell into unconsciousness.

A hush had fallen over his caregivers. They looked to each other, bewildered and shaken.

"Us?" Della gasped. "We're next?"

"None of us are safe." Perry frowned, deeply. Steve was still in the house, questioning staff members. After calling for an ambulance, Andy had gone in after him. Sergeant Brice was searching the grounds.

"But what's this nonsense about the stab wounds?" Tragg spoke up. "There aren't ten of us."

Paul glanced around. "Well, there's five of us here. Andy and Steve make seven. I don't know if she's counting Brice or not."

"He's usually around," Perry mused. "Quiet and unassuming, but always in the background."

Hamilton looked to Perry with a start. "If this is about everyone who was involved in sending Vann to jail, maybe she's after Mignon, too," he said in alarm.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "Call her, Hamilton," he instructed. "Make sure she and Larry are safe."

Hamilton cleaned his hands on an antiseptic wipe. "Larry might be a target too," he frowned. "But he wasn't as closely involved as Mignon was." He got to his feet and stepped away from the others as he took out the phone.

Della watched him. "Who else _would_ be as involved?" she wondered.

"I don't know," Perry frowned. "There's the Petersons."

"And Heaven help us if she means Howie," Tragg snarled. "I wouldn't put it past her to harm a kid."

That thought left Della stricken. With the woman's cold-hearted executions of two, maybe three people, and the attempt on Winters, she supposed she could imagine that Helen was too far gone to care whether she went after a child. Della would just have to pray that it was not the case. There had to be someone else, an adult whom they were overlooking.

But who?

xxxx

Steve, as it turned out, was having a rather difficult time even locating any of the staff to question. "Hello?" he called as he wandered the hallways and the rooms. His footsteps and voice echoed eerily, never receiving a reply. The mansion was as silent as . . . well, as a tomb, and frankly, that was what it was starting to feel like to him.

He was only growing angrier. The entire staff could not be gone. That would be a coincidence too incredible for words. The only way it made sense was if they had all known about Winters being attacked and had departed after that. Which did not make much sense, really; it would seem at least some of them would be more human and less monstrous than to do that.

"Steve?"

He spun around, tense and alert, his hand reaching for his gun, only to relax at the sight of Lieutenant Anderson approaching him. "Oh. Andy." He sighed, letting his hands drop to his sides.

"Nothing?" Andy glanced around the corridor, a bit spooked by the stillness.

"Nothing." Steve glared at the door he was currently in front of. "This one is Helen Watkins' room. The police have been over it up, down, and sideways." But he pushed the door open again anyway. Everything looked just as it had before. The rest of the staff had apparently done nothing to disturb the room or its contents.

Andy came over and peered into it as well. "I suppose there's always the chance that something was overlooked."

Steve nodded. "And if we go through the rest of the house and don't find anyone, maybe I'll come back here and try going through it again, just in case."

Andy stepped away from the door, exasperated. "Where could everyone _be?_" he cried, his hands going to his hips.

"If I had any idea, we wouldn't be here, wondering what to do." Steve glanced up the stairs. "I'll take the second floor. Why don't you finish down here?"

Andy nodded. "Alright."

The blond detective sighed to himself as he was left alone, Steve's footsteps fading on the stairs above. They had searched plenty of houses through the years, and Andy had felt a bad sense of foreboding about more than one of them. Every now and then it was just nerves. But usually, if he had a sinking feeling about a house, there was a reason for it.

He was feeling that again now.

He opened one door and searched the room beyond, then another. The ground floor was a perplexing maze, with secondary doors in rooms leading to other rooms—some inaccessible from the corridors. Vann had probably liked the thrill of mystery it provided.

One thing Andy noted was that Helen's bedroom seemed to be the only one on this level. Was there any significance in that? Did she detest heights? Or did she choose the room solely to be closer to the front door when someone called?

On the other hand, maybe there was no particular importance in that fact at all.

But as he pushed open a door leading out of the study and into what appeared to be Vann's home office, he stiffened. He had just found something of particular importance.

One of the servants was sprawled on the floor near a bookcase, either unconscious or dead. The bookcase had been rifled through; books and papers were strewn everywhere. A statue bust was tipped on its side. The telephone hung over the edge of the desk to the floor.

Andy snapped to, hastening to the scene. "Hello?" he called as he knelt next to the person. "Can you hear me?"

The man stirred, moaning as he raised a hand to the back of his head. "What hit me?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Andy said. "What's the last you remember?"

"Being here, straightening up. That's it." Suddenly the man rose, despite the pounding pain in his head. "One of Mr. Vann's logbooks wasn't in its right place. Someone took it, didn't they?"

Andy surveyed the mess. "What does it look like?"

"Small and bound with a . . . a kind of maroon-colored leather," was the reply as the wounded man searched for the right words.

Andy looked through the books on the floor before turning his attention to the shelves. "I'm afraid I don't see anything like that," he said. "What was in this logbook?"

"Business transactions, mostly." But then the man frowned up at him. "Wait a minute. I don't know you! Are _you_ the one who hit me?"

Andy stiffened. "No," he retorted in surprise. "No, of course not." He pulled out his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Anderson. I was here earlier."

"Oh. The police. Yes." The servant shook his head. "There's nothing here that should interest you now."

"What about outside?" Andy's voice gained an edge.

"Outside?" From the way the man squinted up at him, it seemed that he honestly had no idea what Andy was talking about.

"Yes, outside. Where Mr. Winters has been stabbed repeatedly, almost to the point of death." To Andy's relief, sirens were now wailing. Hopefully the ambulance was not too late.

"Who would do that?" The injured man backed up against the bookshelf, his eyes wide.

"That's what we want to know," Andy replied. "It's possible that whoever it was also struck you and took the logbook."

"Well, I have no idea who it was." He sounded defensive now.

Andy reached out, plucking off a stray piece of dark red-and-black cloth clinging to the man's sleeve. "I hope you're telling me the truth," he said as he held it up. "Now, about that logbook. Why is it still here? The police were supposed to have confiscated all of the materials concerning Mr. Vann's business affairs." He paused, waiting for an answer that did not come. He was receiving only a glower in reply. "Could it be that it held the proof of his _less-than-legal_ business affairs? Something we've been looking for all these months? Well?"

The servant's fists clenched. "What'll happen if I tell you everything you want to hear?"

Andy leaned back. "Well, for one thing, I'll see what can be worked out with Mr. Burger. But don't try telling me 'what I want to hear' if it isn't really the truth," he cautioned.

"It's the truth." The other sounded sullen now. "I'll tell you. Yes, it's the proof you've wanted. And he's always kept it in a secret place, so secret that none of the police found it. When I saw it was out tonight, I knew something was up. Only the staff knows about it."

"So someone on the staff removed it? Do you think this same person hit you and stole it?"

"Yeah." He poked the scrap of cloth. "And now that she's got it, she's probably planning to leave the country. After she finishes all of her killing." He looked up at Andy, and for the first time the fear was obvious in his eyes. "She's gunning for you, Anderson. And other people too. I heard her say it. And if she knows I've talked, she'll come back for me!"

"You'll be placed under police protection," Andy assured him. He reached out, assisting the character to his feet. "Tell me more."

xxxx

Hamilton hung up the phone with a sigh as the ambulance pulled up in front of the house. "Mignon's alright," he reported. "I told her to get the police out there, just in case."

Perry nodded and stood to allow the paramedics to go over to Winters. "Good."

Hamilton looked through the various messages on the small screen. "Leon sent me a text a few hours ago," he noted. "It's been so hectic that I didn't even think to check until now. It's something about some information he's gathered for when we go back to court next week. . . ." He trailed off, his mouth falling open.

Perry frowned in concern. "What is it, Hamilton?" He and the others began to make their way to his side.

"It's Leon." Hamilton looked up, the fear and worry clear in his eyes. "Leon's been very involved with the Vann case. Not before he was arrested, but after. Leon might be the other one on Helen's hit list!"


	11. Knives

**Chapter Eleven**

Leon was at home while Hamilton worried over his safety. He sighed to himself as he brought a mug of hot chocolate into the living room and set it on the coffee table in front of the couch. It had been a long day. And he was still waiting to hear back from Mr. Burger. He should sleep, he knew, but it was important that Mr. Burger see what he had dug up for court next week. He had tried calling his boss both at his home and on his cellphone, to no avail. And there had been no answer to his text message.

Mr. Burger was probably hard at work on the case concerning Mr. Drake and had turned his phone off at some point. That happened occasionally, so at the moment Leon was not too worried. Anyway, it wasn't as though the information couldn't wait until tomorrow.

He stared at the folder he had filled, barely bothering to notice as his unruly bangs slipped over his eyes. He had somehow, at long last and quite by accident, stumbled across some records of Mr. Vann's business transactions. But these were transactions that had not been brought to light before, involving the purchases of various objects of fine art. Something about them did not entirely ring true, as far as Leon was concerned. He had hopes that perhaps the information would lead to Mr. Vann's conviction on _something_ at long last.

Setting the folder aside, he sipped at the hot chocolate and reached for the telephone. He frowned when he was met by dead silence. "It's dead," he said aloud and in surprise. Repeatedly pressing the dial-tone button did nothing to alleviate the problem. Finally he dropped the receiver back into the phone's cradle, regarding it in confused displeasure. "Okay," he said. "What's wrong with you?" Of course, there was no answer and no solution.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Technology," he muttered in frustration.

Once he finished the hot chocolate he got up to return the empty mug to the kitchen. But the breeze at the back of his neck made him stiffen. He had not left the window open.

He spun around, just in time to see the flash of a knife blade. A woman was climbing in through the now-open window. Her eyes were wild and filled with hate.

"What are you doing?" Leon demanded. He grabbed for the woman's wrist as she swung the knife at him. The weapon cut into his arm and he clenched his teeth in pain.

"You're going to suffer," she snapped. "You, and your boss, and his friends. You're all going to die for what you've done to upset our plans!" She wrenched her wrist free, lunging at him in the same moment.

Leon dove out of the way and tried to restrain her from behind. "If we've done anything, your plans probably needed to be upset!" he exclaimed.

She roared in anger, shoving backwards with both elbows. Leon gasped as he was hit hard in the ribs. He stumbled, giving her just enough leeway to turn and shove the knife into his side.

The pain flamed through Leon's body. He fell back, the blood coming to his lips as the madwoman withdrew the knife and came at him again. Clapping a hand over the wound, Leon shoved her away from him and stumbled into the living room. His heart was pounding furiously as he grabbed up the folder in his free hand and ran for the door. He had to get out of here and call for help. He could not stay and try to fight her.

She was already upon him again as he reached the front door and desperately fumbled with the lock. Too filled with hatred and rage to even speak or scream, she jabbed the knife downward again. Leon gave a choked cry as he was hit in the shoulder while struggling to fight her off.

The wooden door finally came open, the knob coated with his blood. He pushed on the stubborn storm door and managed to get it open as well. Stumbling into the yard, he ran for the car while casting his eyes about in the vain hope that some of his neighbors had heard the commotion and were coming out.

"Help!" he cried in agony. "Someone's trying to kill me!"

He pushed the folder under his left arm and took out the car keys with his right hand. He got the door unlocked and flung himself inside just as the woman launched herself at the vehicle. The driver's side window shattered, spraying glass in all directions. Leon yelped, covering his eyes and neck only briefly before fitting the proper key into the ignition and turning it. The car roared to life.

Gripping the steering wheel in his bloodstained hands, Leon sped backwards out of the driveway and into the street. He glanced back just in time to see the woman picking herself up from where she had been thrown to the lawn. She appeared unhurt, save for various scratches and cuts from the broken glass.

Leon blinked repeatedly, trying to force his eyes to remain open as he drove in search of a payphone. He had lost a lot of blood already. And, quiet, unassuming person that he was, he had rarely ever been hurt by worse than a small cut here and there. Certainly he had never been stabbed. Now his arm had been slashed and a knife of no known origin had twice pierced him. Not to mention the glass from the car window had cut him up, too. He was growing dizzier by the minute.

It was several blocks later when he saw a payphone and felt safe enough to stop and use it. His hands shaking, he dug in his pocket for a quarter and slipped it into the slot. The phone slipped and slid in his grasp as he struggled to tap out a number. It was a miracle he had managed to hold onto the steering wheel, really, with so much blood. Trembling, he leaned against the phone while it rang. When the 911 dispatcher answered at last, Leon was teetering on the edge of consciousness. He forced himself to stand up straighter.

"I need an ambulance," he rasped. "I've been stabbed. A crazy woman broke into my house and . . ." He coughed on the blood.

"Sir? Where are you? Are you at your home?"

"No. I'm . . ." He looked over his shoulder, desperate for the street name. Seeing it on the corner nearby, he recited it to the woman.

"An ambulance will be sent immediately," she assured him. "Sir, how badly are you hurt?"

But Leon was barely listening now. Something else had just occurred to him, something that left him struck with horror and alarm. "I . . . I'm sorry," he said to the dispatcher. "I . . . I'll call you back. I just realized I'm not the only person in danger."

"Sir!" she exclaimed.

Leon was already hanging up. Getting out another quarter, he pecked out a second number. "Please be there," he whispered. "Please answer."

"Hello?"

Relief swept over him to hear the district attorney's voice. "Mr. Burger!" he greeted.

"Leon?" Mr. Burger sounded shocked. "I've been trying to get hold of you. Are you alright?"

Leon glanced at his side. Cringing, he placed his free hand over it again. "Um . . . no, not really," he had to admit.

"Leon, what _happened?_"

"Mr. Burger? I . . . I know this will sound ridiculous, but an insane woman broke into my house and attacked me. She might still be after me now. I don't know. Please, Mr. Burger, be careful. She said she was going to go after you and some other people too. I think she meant Mr. Mason and his friends, and maybe the police."

There was the sound of Mr. Burger sharply drawing in his breath. "Leon, did you recognize her? Was it Helen Watkins, one of Vann's staff members?"

Leon blinked in surprise. "It . . . she could be," he agreed. The dizziness was rushing over him far more furiously now. He had the feeling that he was not going to be able to call the 911 dispatcher again.

"Mr. Burger, I called an ambulance for me," he said. "I'm at a payphone. And I . . . I think I have to hang up now."

"Leon, where are you?" Mr. Burger demanded. "We'll come get you and take you to the hospital."

It was getting harder to process what was being said. Leon slumped forward, shaking, his hair falling over his glasses. "It's the corner of . . . of . . ." Suddenly his mind was blank. His legs gave out underneath him, sending him crumpling to the ground. The receiver slipped from his fingers, dangling from the box.

xxxx

"Leon?" Hamilton's voice rose in his panic. "Leon!"

He looked to Perry, the fear and worry in his eyes. "I was right," he said grimly. "I wish I wasn't. Someone, probably Helen, just attacked Leon. I don't know how badly he's hurt. Now he's not answering. I heard a crash. . . ." He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed for his car. "Winters is getting the treatment he needs. I have to find Leon. And I think I should stop and pick up Mignon on the way. She might be next on the list."

Perry hurried after him. "Did the person get away?" he demanded.

"I think so," Hamilton frowned. "Leon said he called an ambulance, so I guess the police have probably been called now too. Maybe they'll catch Leon's attacker, but I'm not going to take a chance."

Paul stepped forward. "I'll ride with you," he said. "You might need a hand."

Perry nodded. "And Della and I won't be far behind."

Hamilton regarded them in gratitude. "Thank you. But for goodness sake, Perry, be careful! She's after all of us."

"We'll be careful," Perry assured him. "I'll let Tragg and Andy and Steve know too."

Hamilton nodded and hastened to his car, Paul right on his heels.

Della watched them and looked up worriedly at Perry. "Do you think Leon is hurt bad?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

Perry sighed. "I don't know, Della. But considering Winters' condition . . ." He shook his head. "We can only hope Leon managed to get away before he ended up that bad off."

xxxx

Both Paul and Hamilton were tense as they headed back to downtown Los Angeles, but Hamilton was naturally moreso. Paul could see that his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.

". . . I'm sorry about Leon," Paul said at last.

"I should've realized sooner that he might be a target," Hamilton berated. "I tried so hard to keep him from being involved in that mess Vivalene created. . . ."

"You can't protect everyone all the time," Paul grunted.

"I know that!" Hamilton shot back. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Paul. I just . . . I wanted to keep Leon safe because he's never been mixed up in anything too dangerous. He's just a kid, really. He came to work for me pretty much right out of school."

"I don't even know him too well," Paul admitted. "He's hardly ever in court."

"Yes, I know. Generally I have a deputy district attorney with me, for training purposes. Leon stays in the office and works. You don't see him much, Paul, but he's as invaluable to me as Della is to Perry."

Paul nodded. "That's understandable." And it made sense. But it was obvious it wasn't Hamilton's main reason for being concerned.

"Paul . . . that woman is out of her mind."

Paul froze, not so much at Hamilton's words but at his tone of voice. He sounded haunted, chilled . . . helpless.

"Look at what she did to you," Hamilton went on. "And to Winters. And supposedly to those other stabbing victims. And all because of her obsessions over Winters and Vann."

". . . And she was never even a suspect before." The bitter hint in Paul's voice was unmistakable.

Hamilton flinched a bit. "There was never anything to connect her with any of this," he said. "It's only all started unraveling since you came back."

"After this, I'm not so sure it was a good thing. Look at what's happened to Leon." Paul watched as Hamilton sped around a corner, intent on heading for Mignon's residence. He was keeping within the speed limit, but from the screech of the tires it was a difficult task.

"You can't blame yourself for that, Paul," Hamilton said. "Anyway, it all had to come apart sometime."

"Yeah." Paul frowned. "I just wish it hadn't been like this. And I wish it hadn't started with me. If there's one thing I _hate,_ it's being used."

"No one likes that. I've been used on this case too."

In the next moment Hamilton sharply gasped. He had just caught sight of something. As Paul looked, his eyes widened in alarm.

A body was lying on the ground under a payphone, blood staining the sidewalk.

Hamilton pulled to the curb and leaped out, all in one motion. "Leon?" he cried.

Paul was out right after him. "Is it him?" he demanded.

"Yes, it is." Hamilton knelt next to his secretary, checking for breath. Leon was so silent, so still, and there was so much blood. . . . It seemed like much more than they had seen with Winters, but maybe that was just in his mind because this horrified him infinitely more. "Where is that blasted ambulance?"

Almost as if on cue, a siren wailed in the distance.

"It'll be here soon," Paul said. "What about it? Is he . . ." He trailed off. He was often a blunt person, but could he be blunt about this? Especially when he could see how shaken Hamilton already was?

"He's still alive," Hamilton breathed in joyous relief. "Help me with these wounds, please. We have to stop the bleeding!"

Paul was certainly agreeable. He bent down to give whatever assistance he could. The sight of the merciless lacerations sickened him much more than it had with Winters, considering Leon's complete guiltlessness. "Poor guy," he muttered. "What the heck did she do to him?"

"Well, she didn't get the chance to do everything, at least." Hamilton devoted his attention to Leon's side, pressing a cloth against the wound. He refrained from repeating what the paramedics had said about Winters as they had loaded him in the ambulance—that they doubted he would live through the night. But even though Leon had not been wounded as many times, he could still die too, depending on the extent of the damage and the amount of lost blood.

When the paramedics arrived, they were of the same mind.

"It's really too soon to tell," one of them quietly told Hamilton as they loaded Leon onto a gurney and wheeled it to the ambulance. "It doesn't look good. But he's young and strong. Maybe that will be enough to save him. Maybe not. A few prayers couldn't hurt, either."

Hamilton and Paul both nodded, grim.

"Will you be coming to the hospital?"

Hamilton hesitated. He wanted to, but Leon was not the only one in danger. And hopefully he would be safe now, at least from that woman.

"I'll come by later," he said. "I need to go check on someone else."

"Alright. Oh." The paramedic reached and picked up a bloodstained folder. "He brought this with him, Mr. Burger. He might have wanted you to have it."

Hamilton took it and flipped it open, glancing over the information Leon had collected. "I think he did," he said. "Thank you."

Paul peered over his shoulder. "What is it?"

Hamilton waved it at him. "Some more proof about Vann's shopping preferences," he said. "Leon risked everything to get this to me." He stared at it, greatly sobered.

"Is it enough to turn your case around?"

"I don't know," Hamilton admitted. "But it'll definitely help, I'll tell you that. If we can hold him on _anything,_ we'll have more time to build our case where that Box is concerned."

He headed for the car. "Come on. We still have to get to Mignon."

Paul followed in hot pursuit, sending up one of those prayers for not only Leon, but all of the others as well. He was sure Hamilton had done the same.

xxxx

Perry and Della were, indeed, taking the same path as Hamilton and Paul. So were Lieutenants Tragg and Anderson. Lieutenant Drumm and Sergeant Brice, meanwhile, had decided to take an alternate route to reach Mignon's home, stopping at several of the others' houses on the way. Their psychotic suspect might decide to go after any one of them next, not knowing that most of them were not at home.

Steve was tense as he drove them to the Germaine residence. Brice remained silent, alternately watching him and the road.

He had been on the force for many years. During that time he had assisted many of the Homicide Lieutenants. He supposed that he was the closest to Tragg, but he had also become friendly with Andy and Steve.

Steve was the youngest of the three, but certainly not impulsive or incompetent. He had a determined, tough-as-nails approach that made him very efficient on the job. At the same time, he felt deeply for the people they came in contact with. Brice had seen that in Steve's reaction to the brutal murder of a police officer sometime back, as well as in his friendship with Paul and his concern over what would happen to him. Although Brice was chronologically older than Steve, he was perfectly willing and honored to serve under the higher-ranked officer.

"Everything looks calm."

Brice started back to the present as Steve spoke. They were just approaching the Germaines' home now. The squad car previously assigned to watch over the property was still there. The officers looked bored but alive and well. Upon seeing Steve's car, they tried to perk up and appear more professional.

Steve shook his head and pulled over to the curb behind them. He and Brice got out, walking over to their window. "Has there been anything strange at all?" Steve greeted.

"No, Lieutenant," was the reply. "Everything's been completely quiet since we got here."

"Good," Steve nodded. "Or is it?" He frowned, looking back to the house. What if Helen would try to sneak in from the back and the officers would never notice?

"Have you been taking periodic walks around the property?" he asked, still studying it.

"Yes, Sir. Once every hour." The young policeman leaned on the steering wheel and tilted his head, regarding Steve in surprised confusion. "Do you think something isn't right?"

"I don't know," Steve mused. "Sergeant Brice and I are going to check it out. You two stay here. If anything starts to sound funny, call in for backup."

"Yes, Lieutenant!" the officer nodded.

Steve headed up the walkway and onto the porch, Brice right on his heels. About the time they reached the porch, a horrible _crash_ resounded from inside. Both detectives drew their guns.

"This is the police," Steve yelled through the door. "Open up!"

"Lieutenant . . . !" came Mignon's voice from inside. But she was cut off.

Behind them, the officers were calling for backup and getting out of the car. Steve wasted no time in kicking open the door and hastening inside with Brice.

Helen was there, having apparently entered through a window at the back of the house. Now she was standing in the middle of the floor, Mignon in front of her. As she restrained the older woman in a chokehold, she held a knife to her back.

"Welcome, Lieutenant Drumm, Sergeant Brice," she snapped. "You can watch me strike this woman down before I take out the two of you."

Steve gripped his gun. "Let's calm down and talk about this," he said. "What makes you think we'll let you strike down Ms. Germaine?"

"You won't have a choice, Lieutenant," Helen spat. "It only takes one well-placed stab wound to kill. The rest are just to leave a message."

Mignon's eyes narrowed. Her mouth was pressed in a straight line and she appeared unafraid, but the occasional flicker in her eyes said that some part of her was indeed afraid. She had never gone up against such a vicious madwoman before.

"If you so much as try to leave 'one well-placed stab wound', you'll be shot dead," Steve informed Helen. "What do you think Ms. Germaine has done to you?"

"It's all of you, Lieutenant Drumm," Helen retorted. "You've always been closing in on Mr. Vann. And I've had enough of it!"

"Something must have set you off," Steve said.

"Everything has been falling apart since that detective came back to town," Helen said bitterly.

"But you're the one who gave him the instructions to come back."

"That was before he found the barge and changed our plans. He should have died then!" Helen cried. "But Jason was weak; he couldn't do it. So I punished him just as I'm going to punish all of you!"

The officers, instead of coming up to the front door, were making their way around the back. Steve, seeing them starting to slip through the window, followed by Lieutenants Tragg and Anderson, determined to keep Helen distracted and talking until they could come closer from behind.

"You're punishing us?" he said. "You're the one breaking the law, Helen. You and Robert Winters and Carlyle Vann. Did you really think you wouldn't be caught?"

Outside on the front lawn, Perry, Della, Paul, and Hamilton watched in tense horror. None of them dared to move for fear of inciting Helen's rage all the more.

"We weren't caught for years," Helen said. "When that girl stumbled on our racket, I got rid of her."

"You mean Truth Pearson?"

"_Yes!"_ Helen shrieked. "That little witch, always distracting Robbie from me! And she had to be such a self-righteous little prick, too. She was going to report everything about our smuggling operations. Well, I wasn't going to let her!"

Her chokehold tightened on Mignon. In pain now and not mere discomfort, Mignon reached up in a desperate but vain attempt to loosen the grip.

"So you killed Truth," Steve said. "What about Jason Fleur? How did he get involved with you in the first place?"

"He came looking for Truth," Helen said. "He dug too deep, so Robbie and I forced his hand by making him work for us. He kept trying to figure out if we were responsible for Truth's disappearance, but I certainly didn't let on. And Robbie honestly didn't know what I'd done."

"Did you force Jason to try to botch Mr. Burger's case against Vann?"

"It was Robbie's idea," Helen said. "Jason had no choice but to go along. But he hated every minute of it. That's probably why he refused to kill Drake on the barge."

Suddenly she whirled with a cry, facing Tragg and the other police who had been coming up on her from behind. "You won't take me!" she screamed. "I'll kill all of you. I'll carve you all the way I did Robbie!"

"Why did you stab him, Miss Watkins?" Tragg demanded, tense and on edge but trying to keep outwardly calm. Mignon's life hung in the balance.

"He never could give up Truth." Helen's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "We could never move on like that. And if he was such an obstruction to himself, it was better for him to die then to keep on that way."

"He isn't dead," Andy spoke up. "He's in critical condition, yes, but he's still alive."

That news seemed to tip the rest of Helen's sanity overboard. She shrieked, the hand holding the knife violently trembling. "No! That isn't true! I killed him, I killed him, _I killed him!_ I sent him on to his precious Truth! _I __**killed**__ him!_"

Mignon took the chance to grip Helen's arm with all of her strength, digging in her nails. She managed to force it away just enough to be able to slip out of the madwoman's grasp.

Instantly the police swarmed over her. She roared and flailed and kicked, swiping the knife in every direction. Though she managed to slice Steve's arm and Tragg's shoulder, they and Andy soon had her under their tight restraint. Andy wrenched the knife from her hand.

"Mignon!" Hamilton led the others inside, running to his dear friend. She went to him, shaken but already regaining her composure.

"I'm alright, Hamilton," she told him.

Hamilton drew an arm around her, turning to look as the police forced Helen's hands behind her back. She snarled and still tried to fight back, but she seemed to be easing off in her level of intensity.

Paul came up next to him. "It's over then, isn't it?" he said. "There aren't any other crazy dames floating around outside with knives?"

"We can hope and pray not, Paul," Perry said.

"But it won't be over until we know if her other victim is going to be alright."

Paul looked to Hamilton as he spoke, quietly and pained. Slowly he reached out, laying a hand on Hamilton's shoulder. "We'll go to the hospital now and find out," he said.

Mignon glanced between them in concern. "What other victim?" she asked.

Hamilton drew a shaking breath. "It's a long story."


	12. Epilogue

**Notes: And brought to its conclusion at last. I'm sorry it took so long to write this one; it wouldn't have if it hadn't been for those writing projects I took on at Livejournal during May and June. But I thoroughly enjoyed those and don't regret working with them. I have another mystery idea already waiting in the wings. Those coming in from other sources may be aware of it from the little trailer I put together last month. Thanks to everyone who has been interested in this project! I think I managed to tie everything else together in this chapter. If something still isn't clear, tell me and I'll either try to explain in a private message or edit with the explanation.**

**Epilogue**

Hamilton paced up and down in the hospital waiting room, agonized and impatient.

The news on Leon was still not good. He was weakened and unconscious and in need of a blood transfusion. That was being seen to now. Meanwhile, there was nothing Hamilton could do but to wait.

And to listen while Perry and the rest tried to distract him and weave together the last missing links of the case.

"There's some things that still aren't adding up," Paul frowned. "Like how Helen managed to sneak out of the house at least two times when she was supposed to be under police surveillance."

"I've been thinking about that, Paul," Perry said. "My guess is that either she simply managed to slip out unnoticed while she was supposed to be asleep, and took a route across the property that was not being so closely watched, or else someone sneaked in and switched places with her so it would look like she was still around when she wasn't. Or even both."

Tragg started. "That could be why Jennifer Pearson looked so familiar to me," he exclaimed. "Maybe she switched places with Helen and I saw her at the house, from a distance. They're both about the same build."

Hamilton frowned. "But would she work with Helen? I realize it could all be an act, but she came across like she hated Helen."

"I know," Tragg nodded. "But then there's also Portman's claim that Jennifer delivered a message to her instead of taking one back to Jason, as Jennifer said. Maybe both things are true. Maybe not. In any case, I'd say Ms. Jennifer Pearson has some more questions to answer."

He stood, giving Hamilton a sympathetic look. "I'm going to go try to talk with her now. Let me know if you find out about Leon before I get back."

Hamilton nodded. "I will."

"There's also why I was wanted in San Diego," Paul frowned. "We still don't know that, unless they really did just think I'd keep out of the way better down there."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Steve growled.

He sighed. "At least we know now who that stabbing victim was that you found, Paul. Helen told us it was some poor sap who stumbled on her when she'd just killed Truth's double Lara in the storage building. And when she sent you out there, she really was trying to frame you for both murders."

"Nice lady," Paul grumbled.

"Aren't they always," Tragg remarked from where he was going out the door with Sergeant Brice.

xxxx

With other matters to tend to, some of the people came and went over the next couple of hours. Hamilton insisted on staying, even as the hour grew later. Among those who lingered with him was Paul. Hamilton was both surprised and touched.

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said as they stood at the window. "You admitted you don't really know Leon very well."

Paul shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know," he said. "I don't." He shifted, looking a bit awkward. "Maybe I'm trying to make up for what I did . . . before."

Hamilton regarded him in amazement. "You don't have to make up for that. We know now why it happened and why you did it. In some weird way . . . no, in a very real way, your attacking me proves that you care, just like Portman said. It wouldn't have happened if you didn't care."

"Yeah, but then there's the sick irony of it too," Paul said, the bitterness in his voice. "If I'd killed you . . ."

"But you didn't," Hamilton quickly interjected.

"If I _had . . ._" Paul trailed off. "No, nevermind. I don't want to talk about that. I guess all I can really do is apologize for it and move on. Even though 'I'm sorry for almost killing you' doesn't sound right at all."

Hamilton chuckled under his breath. "Your apology is accepted anyway. And Paul . . ." He sobered, looking at his friend in all sincerity. "It's good to have you grounded in reality again."

"Tell me about it," Paul said. "I never want to leave reality again."

"And I'll do everything in my power to see that you don't," said Hamilton. "I'm sure Perry and Della and Steve are of the same mind."

"Mr. Burger?"

Both men looked up. The doctor was coming out at last.

Hamilton perked up and hurried over to him. "How is he, Doctor?" he greeted. "Is he going to make it?"

The physician nodded and smiled. "I think so. His body's responding to the transfusion. He's lucky the knife and that glass didn't piece anything vital." He flipped the pages on his clipboard. "He's awake and asking for you. But Mr. Burger, don't keep him long, please."

Hamilton smiled in relief. "I won't," he promised. "Thank you."

Paul grinned. "You go on and talk to him," he said. "I'll wait here with Perry and Della and Mignon." They were coming over now too, having heard the news. They were all relieved.

Hamilton glanced to him and nodded. "I'll tell him you and everyone else has been here, worried about him."

"You do that," Paul said. "And I'll start calling Tragg and the others to let them know he'll be okay."

Hamilton's eyes flickered in surprise. "Thanks."

xxxx

Leon's hair always seemed to manage to find a way to fall in his eyes. It was doing so again when Hamilton pushed the heavy door open and entered the room. Leon was lying in the bed, resting against a couple of thick pillows. He smiled brightly as Hamilton entered. "Mr. Burger!"

Hamilton came to stand by the bed, looking Leon over to make sure he really was doing alright. "How you can see is beyond my knowledge," he remarked.

Leon pushed the bangs out of his eyes. "Are you alright, Sir? I was worried that witch would go after you, too."

"I'm fine, Leon," Hamilton tried to reassure him. "She's caught now. She won't hurt any of us anymore."

"Good. Oh, did you get my folder?"

Hamilton nodded. "It should help a great deal. That, and the logbook of Vann's that Steve found on Helen Watkins." He regarded Leon seriously and with gratitude. "Thank you, Leon."

"I always want to help," Leon said. "I'm glad if I could."

"You have," Hamilton said firmly. "Now you just need to relax and get better. The office will probably fall apart without you around to manage it."

Leon's eyes flickered with pride even as he said, "I'm sure Miss Miller and the others can keep it going, Sir." It meant a great deal to him to have Hamilton's approval.

And Hamilton knew it. "Oh sure, they can keep it going," he said. "But you've figured out how to get things done faster than usual. It'll take them a while to catch on to that."

"I'll be back soon, Sir," Leon promised.

"I hope so," Hamilton rejoined. "Mainly, though, I'm just glad you'll be back at all."

Leon fell silent. ". . . Why did that woman want to kill me?"

Hamilton sighed. "It looks like it had to do with how angry she was over you taking part in helping me with the case against Vann." Seeing that Leon was tiring, he straightened. "But nevermind that; we'll talk about it when you're feeling better. You should rest now."

"I feel alright, Sir."

"Maybe so, but after what you've been through, you still need to rest." Hamilton backed up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright. Goodnight, Mr. Burger."

"Goodnight, Leon."

xxxx

Hamilton's mind was filled with many different subjects as he walked back up the hall—Leon, Helen, and the attack, among others. Paul's situation was also heavily present. But when he arrived in the waiting room and saw that Tragg had returned, along with Andy and Steve, every thought fled his mind.

"Tragg," he greeted. "Andy, Steve. What happened?"

Tragg sighed. "Well, Jennifer finally admitted that yes, she was out at Vann's place a couple of times," he said. "But she said that she and Jason had teamed up to try to find out what had happened to Truth. So when I saw her, she must've just been going over to talk to Helen or Winters about it. She didn't know how Helen managed to get out of the house those times."

Steve continued, "Helen backed up Jennifer's story. She also said that she just sneaked out late at night and took a secret path the police didn't know about. Apparently that's also how Portman's equipment got into that storage shed. There's a back door that leads directly into the hedge running behind it and the ivy."

"That's bizarre," Paul declared, shaking his head.

"And what about those unidentified fingerprints?" Perry wanted to know.

"Helen said they probably belonged to one of Portman's lackeys, the fellow that helped move the stuff." Tragg exhaled in exasperation. "I thought we'd rounded most of them up."

"With a creep like her, it's not too surprising there's more," Paul said.

Tragg nodded. "We'll be talking to Portman about that tomorrow." From his expression and tone of voice, he did not relish the task. Of course, no one could blame him.

"What about the discrepancy with the notes?" Hamilton wondered.

"Jennifer did both," Andy said. "She delivered a message to Portman, which she didn't read herself, and took one back to Jason."

"What's going to happen to her?" Perry wondered.

"Well, she's certainly guilty of not just letting the police do their own investigating," Tragg grunted. "But we can't arrest her for that alone. She said she never got mixed up in anything illegal, or even questionable at all, other than that note. We'll watch her for a while longer, but overall I'm convinced that she isn't a problem."

"I'm glad," Della smiled.

"And what about that Lara person?" Paul piped up.

Tragg shook his head. "Oh, that's a strange one. Winters found her and thought she should work with Jason because of her strong resemblance to Truth."

"So he _was_ obsessed with her," Della blinked.

"It would seem so," Tragg said. "We can't question him to find out. He's still in critical condition. But it looks like he just wanted her around to remind him of Truth."

"I don't understand why he was involved with Helen at all," said Della. "Why not just be with Truth?"

"Apparently he found Helen first," Tragg said. "Later on he found Truth and liked her more, but Helen wouldn't let him go."

"And that's what caused all of this." Paul shuddered. "Serious relationships are a scary thing."

"At least they're not usually _this_ scary," Perry said. "Usually both parties involved are mature and rational adults."

"Anyway," Steve cut in, "Helen finally admitted that Lara's body is in a crate from the storage shed, at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. It was weighed down, so we might still be able to find it."

"I hope so," Della said with a shudder. "That poor girl. Did she even know what was going on?"

"She knew Jason Fleur was forging papers in order to study people from all walks of life," Tragg said. "But she wasn't told of exactly what they were doing to help Helen and Winters. The way Helen told it, maybe she never knew, until they had the plan to drug you, Paul."

"Well, she sure didn't seem to hesitate about going along with it," Paul said bitterly. "She just stuck me with that needle as soon as she caught me off-guard."

"Helen or Winters might have threatened Jason's life to make her agree," Steve said. "Helen indicated as much."

"And Helen killed her later that night because she was sick of Winters paying attention to her?" Della deduced in horror.

Steve nodded. "It was like Truth Pearson all over again."

Paul frowned. "The whole mess is disgusting. And we were caught right in the middle of it. Oh, by the way, who knocked out Burger in the cemetery?"

"That was Jason, on orders from Winters," Steve said. "They _were_ just trying to set up a meeting between you two, in the most sick and twisted way they could imagine. They knew all too well what you'd think if you stumbled over Mr. Burger's body while he was still unconscious."

Tragg chimed in, "By that point you were supposed to be dead instead of returning to Los Angeles. So they were trying to throw a new monkey wrench into their plan, to fix the one Jason had thrown in by not killing you."

Paul's lip curled. "What a bunch of rotten people."

"And how," Andy frowned.

Tragg looked to Hamilton. "Oh, we got so caught up in this that I didn't have the chance to ask. How's Leon?"

"He's going to be just fine," Hamilton said in relief.

"And so, might I add, am I," Paul said. "After long last."

Perry regarded him in approval. "Those are words we've wanted to hear for days, Paul."

Della nodded. "When Leon's better, we should all go out for a celebratory dinner," she said.

"That's a great idea," Paul declared. "And I could do with one right now, too."

"That's right," Perry mused. "We never did eat dinner, did we."

"We most certainly didn't," Della said. "I was too upset to eat before. Now I can hardly think of anything else."

Tragg regarded them in amusement. "Well, it just so happens that Andy and Steve have invited us to a very late dinner, now that we're all off-duty."

Steve nodded. "Clay's should still be open."

"I'm in!" Paul exclaimed.

"I'm sure we all are," Perry smiled. "We've all been through far too much on much too little food."

"Then let's end this case with a meal done right," Paul said. His stomach growled in agreement.

The friends left the hospital in high spirits. Paul walked with Perry on his one side and Hamilton on his other. The hurt and pain would be able to mend now. This case had left him with new knowledge of himself—some he liked and some he did not like.

But one thing he liked, and liked the most, was the knowledge of his friendship with Hamilton Burger. It was there and it was real, and now Paul was certain that it would continue to grow.

That was a reality he could live with.


End file.
